ri'iri'iiiwiS! 


fcibrarj?  of  "trhe  "theological  ^cminarju 

PRINCETON  •  NEW  JERSEY 


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PRESENTED  BY 

The  Estate  of  the 
Rev,  John  B,  Vfiedlnger 

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OTHER  BOOKS  BY  MR.  BOREHAM 


A  BUNCH  OF  EVERLASTINGS 
A  HANDFUL  OF  STARS 
A  REEL  OF  RAINBOW 
FACES  IN  THE  FIRE 
MOUNTAINS  IN  THE  MIST 
MUSHROOMS  ON  THE  MOOR 
THE  GOLDEN  MILESTONE 
THE  HOME  OF  THE  ECHOES 
THE  LUGGAGE  OF  LIFE 
THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  HILL 
THE  SILVER  SHADOW 
THE  UTTERMOST  STAR 
SHADOWS  ON  THE  WALL 


RUBBLE  A 
ROSELEAVES 


And  Things  of  That  Kind 


F.  W.  '^BOREHAM 


THE  ABINGDON  PRESS 


NEW  YORK 


CINCINNATI 


Copyright,  1923,  by 
F.  W.  BOREHAM 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


First  Edition  Printed  August,  1923 
Reprinted  January,  1924 


CONTENTS 


Part  I 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  Old  Envelopes .  ii 

II.  ‘Whistling  Jigs  to  Milestones* .  22 

III.  The  Front-Door  Bell .  35 

IV.  The  Green  Chair .  46 

V.  Living  Dogs  and  Dead  Lions .  57 

VI.  New  Brooms .  67 

VII.  A  Good  Wife  and  a  Gallant  Ship _  78 

Part  II 

I.  Odd  Volumes .  91 

II.  O’er  Crag  and  Torrent . loi 

III.  The  Pretender .  113 

IV.  Achmed’s  Investment .  124 

V.  Saturday .  134 

VI.  The  Chimes  .  145 

VII.  ‘Be  Shod  with  Sandals’ .  156 

Part  III 

I.  We  are  Seven .  169 

II.  The  Fish -Pens .  181 

III.  Edged  Tools  .  192 

IV.  Old  Photographs .  202 

V.  A  Box  OF  Blocks .  214 

VI.  Piecrust .  226 

VII.  All’s  Well  That  Ends  Well .  235 


Digitized  by  the  internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


V 


https://archive.org/details/rubbleroseleavesOObore 


BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION 


Every  man  has  a  genius  for  something  or  other. 
I  have  a  genius  for  a  comfortable  armchair  and  a 
blazing  fire.  Add  to  these  two  ingredients  what 
Bob  Cratchit  would  call  a  circle  of  congenial  com¬ 
panions  (meaning,  as  his  considerate  creator  points 
out,  a  semi-circle)  and  I  am  as  destitute  of  envy 
as  the  Miller  of  the  Dee.  I  stipulate,  however,  that 
my  companions  shall  be  so  very  much  to  my  taste 
that,  when  in  the  mood,  I  can  talk  to  my  heart’s 
content  without  seeming  garrulous,  and,  when  in 
the  mood,  can  remain  as  silent  as  the  Sphinx  with¬ 
out  appearing  sullen. 

This  outrageous  spasm  of  autobiography  is 
necessitated  as  an  explanation  of  Rubble  and  Rose- 
leaves.  The  contents  are  neither  essays  nor  sermons 
nor  anything  of  the  kind.  The  inexhaustible  patience 
of  my  readers  has  lured  me  into  the  habit  of  talking 
on  any  mortal — or  immortal — subject  that  takes 
my  fancy.  I  have  merely  set  down  here  a  few 
wayward  notions  that  have,  in  the*  course  of  my 
wanderings,  occurred  to  me.  But,  in  self-defense, 
let  me  add  that  these  outbursts  have  been  punctu¬ 
ated  by  whole  infinitudes  of  silence.  The  silences 
are  eloquently  represented  by  the  gaps  between 
the  chapters. 

Frank  W.  Boreham. 

Armadale,  Melbourne,  Australia. 

Easter,  ig23. 


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4 


PART 


I 


1 


I 


OLD  ENVELOPES 

Three  envelopes,  cruelly  torn  and  sadly  crumpled, 
look  reproachfully  up  at  me  from  the  yawning 
abyss  of  my  waste-paper  basket.  There  is  a 
heavy,  pompous  envelope,  of  foolscap  size,  who 
evidently  feels  that  I  have  affronted  his  dignity 
by  casting  him  to  the  void  in  this  unceremonious 
way.  There  is  a  thin,  blue  envelope  who  seems  to 
be  barking  out  something  about  an  account  that 
ought  to  be  paid.  And  there  is  a  dainty  little  square 
envelope,  delicately  perfumed,  and  addressed  in  a 
lady^s  flowing  hand.  This  pretty  piece  of  stationery 
keeps  asking,  in  a  plaintive  voice,  if  the  age  of 
chivalry  is  dead. 

Why/  these  envelopes  want  to  know,  "why  are 
the  letters  that  we  brought  laid  so  respectfully  on 
your  desk  whilst  we,  to  whom  you  are  so  much  in¬ 
debted,  are  crushed  and  mangled  and  tossed  disdain¬ 
fully  aside?  Isn't  an  envelope  as  good  as  a  letter 
any  day?' 

There  is  justice  in  their  contention,  and  I  take 
up  my  pen  that  I  may  tender  them  an  apology. 
A  letter  will  tell  you  much;  but  the  envelope  will 
often  tell  you  more.  I  remember  sitting  with  John 
Broadbanks  one  autumn  afternoon  on  the  broad 


II 


12 


Bubble  and  Roseleaves 


verandah  of  the  Mosgiel  Manse.  Some  important 
meetings  were  to  be  held  next  day,  and  he  had 
driven  over  to  help  me  in  my  preparations  for  them. 
He  had,  moreover,  arranged  to  stay  the  night.  As 
we  made  our  way  through  the  various  papers  that 
would  have  to  be  dealt  with  next  day,  the  gate 
swung  open  and  the  postman  placed  a  budget  of 
letters  in  my  hand. 

^Hullo!’  I  exclaimed,  ‘an  English  mailT  And, 
excusing  myself  from  the  business  on  hand,  I  lost 
myself  in  the  letters  from  Home. 

I  noticed  that,  when  we  returned  to  the  agenda 
paper  and  reports,  John  did  not  seem  as  keen  as 
usual.  He  went  through  the  documents  mechanic¬ 
ally,  languidly,  perfunctorily,  allowing  several 
matters  to  pass  that,  ordinarily,  he  would  have 
questioned.  He  gave  me  the  impression  of  having 
something  on  his  mind,  and  it  was  not  until  we 
all  sat  round  the  tea-table  that  I  grasped  the  situa¬ 
tion.  Then  he  opened  his  heart  to  us. 

T  am  very  sorry/  he  said,  ‘but  if  you^l  let  me, 
I  think  I  had  better  return  to  Silverstream  this 
evening  after  all.  The  arrival  of  the  English  mail 
makes  all  the  difference.  You  have  your  letters; 
mine  are  waiting  for  me  at  the  Manse.  When  I 
last  heard  from  Home,  my  mother  was  very  ill ;  I 
have  spent  an  anxious  month  waiting  for  the  letter 
that  has  evidently  arrived  to-day;  and  I  do  not  feel 
that  I  can  settle  down  to  to-morrow’s  business  until 
I  have  seen  it.’ 


Old  Envelopes 


13 


The  announcement  was  greeted  with  demon¬ 
strations  of  general  disappointment.  John  was  a 
universal  favorite;  he  was  the  nearest  approach  to 
a  relative  that  the  children  had  ever  known;  and 
the  prospect  of  having  him  in  the  house  until  bed¬ 
time,  and  of  finding  him  still  on  the  premises  when 
they  awoke  in  the  morning,  had  occasioned  the 
wildest  excitement.  And  now  the  beautiful  dream 
was  about  to  be  shattered! 

T  tell  you  what,  John,’  I  said,  going  to  the 
window  and  looking  out,  ‘it’s  going  to  be  a  perfect 
moonlight  night.  Spend  an  hour  with  the  children 
after  tea,  and  then  I’ll  drive  over  to  Silverstream 
with  you.  If  all’s  well,  we  can  return  together.  If 
not,  we  shall  understand.’ 

When,  after  a  sharp  cold  drive  in  the  moonlight, 
we  reached  the  Silverstream  Manse,  things  took  an 
unexpected  turn. 

‘Mrs.  Broadbanks  has  gone  out,’  the  maid 
explained.  ‘The  English  mail  arrived  this  afternoon 
and  she  said  you  would  be  anxious  to  get  your 
Home  letter.  She  took  it  with  her  and  said  that 
she  would  try  to  get  it  posted  this  evening  so  that 
you  would  get  it  first  thing  in  the  morning.  And 
I  think  she  intended  to  look  in  at  Mrs.  Blackie’s 
before  she  returned  and  inquire  about  Alec’s  broken 
leg.  I  know  she  took  some  jellies  with  her.’ 

It  was  now  John’s  turn  to  be  disappointed.  He 
had  had  his  journey  for  nothing;  indeed,  as  things 
now  stood  he  would  be  nearer  to  the  letter  at  Mos- 


14 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


giel  than  at  Silverstream.  Then  an  idea  occurred  to 
him. 

‘Did  Mrs.  Broadbanks  get  letters  from  her  home?’ 
The  maid  thought  that  she  did.  She  knew,  at  least, 
that,  after  the  arrival  of  the  mail,  her  mistress  had 
spent  some  time  in  the  bedroom  by  herself.  John 
hurried  to  the  bedroom. 

‘Hurrah !’  he  cried,  a  moment  later.  ‘Here’s  the 
envelope!  It  is  addressed  in  my  mother’s  hand¬ 
writing,  and  the  postmark  shows  that  it  left  England 
on  March  i6.  The  last  letter  left  on  February  17 
and  the  envelope  was  addressed  by  my  sister.  So 
all’s  serene!  Let’s  get  back  to  Mosgiel !’  John  wrote 
a  hurried  note  for  Lilian ;  left  it  on  the  bed ;  and,  in 
a  few  minutes,  we  were  once  more  startling  the 
rabbits  on  the  road. 

It  is  wonderful  how  often  the  envelope  tells  us 
all  that  we  wish  to  know.  I  always  feel  sorry  for 
the  Postmaster-General.  No  man  on  the  planet  is 
under  so  great  an  illusion  as  is  he.  I  can  never  read 
his  annual  report  without  amusement.  It  is  a  stir¬ 
ring  romance;  but  the  romance  is,  to  some  extent, 
the  romance  of  fiction  rather  than  the  romance  of 
fact.  I  know  that  it  is  a  thankless  task  to  rob  a 
man  of  an  illusion  that  makes  him  happy;  but  the 
interests  of  truth  sometimes  demand  it.  They  do 
in  this  case.  For  it  is  not  the  Postmaster-General 
alone  who  has  been  tricked  by  the  witchery  of 
appearances;  the  fallacy  is  shared  by  all  the  mem¬ 
bers  of  his  enormous  staff.  Every  individual  in 


Old  Envelopes 


15 


the  department,  from  the  Minister  down  to  the  mes¬ 
senger-boy,  is  equally  deceived.  The  annual  report 
proves  it.  For,  in  this  annual  report,  the  Post¬ 
master-General  tells  you  how  many  millions  of  let¬ 
ters  he  and  his  subordinates  have  handled  during  the 
year.  But  have  they?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they 
have  handled  no  letters  at  all — except  dead  letters, 
and  dead  things  don’t  count.  The  Postmaster-Gen¬ 
eral  handles  envelopes;  that  is  all.  Let  him  cor¬ 
rect  the  statement  in  his  next  report. 

It  will  involve  him  in  no  loss  of  prestige,  for,  as 
these  three  envelopes  in  the  basket  plead  so  plain¬ 
tively,  and  as  John  Broadbanks  discovered  that 
moonlight  night  at  Silverstream,  envelopes  have  a 
significance  of  their  own.  The  postman  knows  that. 
He  never  sees  the  letters;  but  the  envelopes  whisper 
to  him  a  thousand  secrets.  He  knows  the  envelopes 
that  contain  circulars,  and  he  hands  them  to  you 
with  a  look  that  is  a  kind  of  apology  for  having 
troubled  you  to  answer  the  door.  He  knows  the 
official  envelopes  that  contain  demands  for  rates, 
income  taxes,  and  the  like.  If  you  are  in  his  good 
books,  he  hands  them  to  you  sympathetically;  if  not, 
he  secretly  enjoys  the  fun.  Here  is  an  envelope 
marked  ‘Urgent’;  here  is  one  with  a  deep  black 
border;  here  is  one  with  silver  edges!  He  cannot 
be  quite  deaf  to  all  that  these  envelopes  say.  And 
here  is  one,  addressed  very  neatly,  to  a  young  lady 
at  the  house  at  the  corner.  He  brings  an  exactly 
similar  envelope  to  the  same  fair  recipient  every 


i6 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


other  morning.  On  the  morning  on  which  he 
brings  the  envelope,  she  invariably  scampers  along 
the  hall  in  order  personally  to  receive  the  letters; 
on  the  alternate  mornings  her  father  or  her  sister 
usually  respond  to  his  ring.  He  never  sees  her  let¬ 
ters  ;  but  he  knows,  he  knows !  The  envelopes  chat¬ 
ter  to  him  all  the  way  down  the  street.  Envelopes 
are  great  gossips.  They  talk  to  the  sorter ;  they  talk 
to  the  collector ;  they  talk  to  the  postman ;  they  talk 
to  the  receiver;  and  they  even  go  on  talking — like 
the  trio  that  set  me  scribbling — after  they  have  been 
tossed  disdainfully  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 

The  letter  may  be  interesting  in  its  way ;  but  the 
envelope  reveals  the  essential  things.  When  a  man 
writes  to  me,  he  does  not  tell  me  what  kind  of  a 
man  he  is ;  but,  recognizing  that  it  is  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  me  that  this  information  should  be 
placed  at  my  disposal,  he  is  good  enough  to  impart 
it  on  the  envelope.  He  smothers  the  envelope  with 
hierogylphs  and  signs  which  are  more  revealing  than 
a  photograph.  It  frequently  happens  that  my  reply 
is  determined  more  by  these  signs  than  by  anything 
that  he  says  in  the  letter.  The  letter  is  probably 
stiff,  formal,  lifeless — like  a  tailor's  model.  But 
the  envelope  reveals  individuality,  character,  life! 
The  envelope's  the  thing!  You  find  all  sorts  of 
things  in  envelopes ;  you  never  find  any  mock  mod¬ 
esty  there.  Envelopes  are  never  shy;  they  never 
stand  on  ceremony;  they  wait  for  no  introduction; 
they  begin  to  talk  as  soon  as  they  arrive.  The 


Old  Envelopes 


17 


envelope  tells  me,  by  means  of  its  postmark,  of  the 
locality  from  which  it  has  come  and  of  the  length 
of  time  that  it  has  spent  upon  the  road.  Then, 
swiftly  establishing  itself  on  friendly  terms,  it 
becomes  personal,  communicative,  confidential.  It 
tells  me  that  the  writer  of  the  letter  that  I  am  about 
to  read  is  a  tidy  man  or  a  slovenly  man,  as  the  case 
may  be.  Sometimes  an  envelope  will  tell  me  that  it 
was  addressed  by  a  feverish,  impulsive,  excitable 
man;  another  will  assure  me,  proudly,  that  it  was 
sent  to  me  by  a  leisurely,  composed,  methodical  man. 
T  come,’  boasts  one  envelope,  ‘from  a  painstaking 
and  accurate  man  who  is  scrupulously  careful  to 
cross  every  and  dot  every  “f.”  ’  ‘And  I,’  mur¬ 
murs  the  envelope  lying  against  it,  ‘come  from  a 
man  who  doesn’t  care  a  rap  whether  the  have 
dots,  or,  for  that  matter,  whether  the  dots  have 
Here  is  an  envelope  that  tells  me  that  it 
has  been  sent  to  me  by  a  very  dilatory  man!  The 
letter  is  dated  March  2 ;  the  postmark  is  dated  March 
6;  he  was  four  days  in  posting  it!  This  envelope 
contains  a  letter  earnestly  requesting  me  to  oblige 
the  writer  by  speaking  at  a  meeting  which  he  is 
organizing,  and  he  is  kind  enough  to  speak  of  the 
great  value  which  he  attaches  to  my  services.  But 
the  good  man  has  not  the  heart  to  deceive  me.  So, 
lest  I  should  take  the  contents  of  the  letter  seriously, 
he  tells  me  that  he  has  not  even  troubled  to  find 
out  how  I  spell  my  name  or  what  initials  I  am 
pleased  to  bear.  I  recognize,  of  course,  that  the 


i8 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


information  imparted  by  the  envelope  is  not  to  be 
implicitly  trusted.  A  notorious  gossip  must  always 
be  heard  with  the  greatest  caution.  But  most  people 
with  much  experience  of  correspondence,  before 
answering  a  letter,  like  to  hear  what  the  envelope 
has  to  say  about  it. 

Nature,  I  notice,  is  very  careful  about  the  enve¬ 
lopes  in  which  she  sends  us  her  letters.  The 
architecture  of  an  orange  is  a  marvel  of  symmetry 
and  compactness;  but  who  has  not  admired  the 
color  and  formation  of  the  peel?  Is  there  anything 
on  earth  more  delicate  and  ingenious  than  the  wrap¬ 
pings  of  a  maize-cob?  The  husks  and  rinds  and 
pods  and  shells  that  we  toss  upon  the  rubbish-heap 
are  masterpieces  of  design  and  execution.  As  a 
small  boy,  I  found  among  my  treasures  three  things 
that  filled  me  with  ceaseless  wonder  and  admiration 
— the  skin  of  horse-chestnuts,  the  cocoons  of  my 
silkworms  and  the  shells  of  the  birds’  eggs  that  I 
brought  home  from  the  lane.  I  knew  little  about 
Nature  in  those  days;  but  I  instinctively  based  my 
first  impressions  on  the  envelopes  that  she  sent ;  and, 
judging  her  by  that  sure  standard,  I  felt  that  she 
must  be  wonderfully  wise  and  good  and  beautiful. 

It  is  considered  correct,  I  understand,  to  say 
that  one  should  not  judge  by  outward  appearances; 
but  how  can  you  help  it?  Envelopes  will  talk!  I 
can  never  forget  a  tremendous  impression  made 
upon  my  mind  a  few  weeks  after  I  went  to  live  in 
London.  I  was  barely  seventeen.  I  was  feeling 


Old  Envelopes 


19 


horribly  lonely,  and,  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  I  was 
desperately  groping  my  way.  One  wet  night,  in 
passing  down  the  Strand,  I  saw  hundreds  of  people 
crowding  into  Exeter  Hall.  Moved  by  a  sudden 
impulse,  I  followed.  The  adventure  promised  a  new 
experience,  and  I  was  specializing  in  novelties.  Then 
came  the  impression!  It  was  not  created  by  the 
arguments  of  the  speakers,  for,  as  yet,  not  one  of 
them  had  spoken.  It  was  created  by  their  personal 
appearance.  The  chair  was  occupied  by  Sir  Steven¬ 
son  Arthur  Blackwood — ‘Beauty  Blackwood,’  as  he 
was  called — and  addresses  were  delivered  by  the 
Revs.  Newman  Hall,  Donald  Fraser,  Marcus  Rains- 
ford  and  Archibald  G.  Brown.  I  could  imagine 
nothing  more  picturesque  than  those  five  knightly 
figures — tall,  dignified  and  stately.  The  spectacle 
completely  captivated  me.  I  gazed  spellbound. 
While  the  great  audience  sang  the  opening  hymn, 
my  eyes  roved  from  one  handsome  form  to  another, 
bestowing  upon  each  the  silent  homage  of  boyish 
hero-worship.  This  happened  more  than  thirty 
years  ago;  yet  I  am  confident  that  I  could  easily 
write  out  a  full  and  accurate  report  of  each  of  the 
speeches  delivered  that  night.  So  favorably  had  the 
envelopes  impressed  my  mind!  And  so  effectively 
had  they  prepared  me  for  the  letters  they  contained ! 

In  every  department  of  life  it  is  the  envelope  that 
becomes  emphatic.  In  describing  at  night  the  people 
with  whom  we  have  met  during  the  day,  we  refer 
to  ‘the  lady  in  the  fur  coat,’  ‘the  girl  in  the  red 


20 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


hat/  and  'the  man  in  the  grey  suit/  The  lady,  the 
girl  and  the  man — these  are  letters.  The  fur  coat, 
the  red  hat  and  the  grey  suit  are  merely  envelopes. 
Yet  we  feel  that  to  speak  of  'a  lady,’  'a  girl’  or  'a 
man’  is,  in  effect,  to  say  nothing.  It  conveys  no  con¬ 
crete  idea.  It  lacks  vividness,  force,  reality.  But 
'a  lady  in  a  fur  coat/  'a  girl  in  a  red  hat/  'a  man 
in  a  grey  suif — ^these  are  pictures  !  The  envelope 
makes  all  the  difference. 

We  often  say  by  way  of  the  envelope  what  we 
cannot  say  so  well  in  the  body  of  the  letter.  Charles 
Dickens  knew  that;  so  did  John  Bunyan;  so  did  the 
Greatest  Master  of  all. 

Dickens  knew  it.  Indeed,  somebody  has  as  good 
as  said  that  Dickens  is  all  envelopes;  he  gives  us 
the  barrister’s  wig  in  mistake  for  the  barrister,  the 
beadle’s  cocked  hat  in  mistake  for  the  beadle,  and 
so  on.  But  if  it  is  true,  on  the  one  hand,  that  Dick¬ 
ens  is  too  fond  of  envelopes,  it  must  be  confessed, 
on  the  other,  that  he  knows  how  to  use  them.  Who 
can  forget  the  night  when  David  Copperfield  and 
Mr.  Peggotty  set  out  together  on  one  of  those  dread¬ 
ful  journeys  that  stood  connected  with  the  loss  of 
little  Emily?  Before  starting,  Mr.  Peggotty  entered 
Emily’s  room.  'Without  appearing  to  notice  what 
he  was  doing,’  said  David  Copperfield,  'I  saw  how 
carefully  he  adjusted  the  little  room  and  finally 
took  out  of  a  drawer  one  of  her  dresses,  neatly 
folded,  and  placed  it  on  a  chair.  He  made  no  allu¬ 
sion  to  these  clothes,  neither  did  1.  There  they 


Old  Envelopes 


21 


had  been  waiting-  for  her,  many  and  many  a  night, 
no  doubt/  Mr.  Peggotty  could  not  express  in  so 
many  words  all  that  he  felt;  but  Emily,  if  she  came, 
would  see  the  dress  lying  ready  for  her,  and  would 
understand  that  everything  was  to  be  just  as  it 
always  was.  She  would  see  the  envelope;  and  the 
envelope  would  say  more  than  any  letter  could  pos¬ 
sibly  do. 

Bunyan  knew  it.  The  first  thing  that  impressed 
the  people  of  Vanity  Fair,  as  they  gazed  upon 
Christian  and  Faithful,  was  that  ‘the  pilgrims  were 
clothed  with  such  kind  of  raiment  as  was  diverse 
from  the  raiment  of  any  that  traded  in  that  fair.’ 

And  Jesus  knew  it.  The  most  searching  and 
terrible  of  all  His  parables  was  the  parable  of  the 
man  who,  seated  at  the  king’s  feast,  had  not  a  wed¬ 
ding  garment.  And,  even  more  notably,  when  the 
prodigal  came  home,  the  father  knew  of  no 
words  in  which  he  could  adequately  welcome  his 
son.  But,  if  he  could  not  write  a  satisfactory  letter, 
he  could  at  least  express  himself  by  means  of  the 
envelope !  Away  with  the  rags !  On  with  the  robes ! 
Bring  forth  the  best  robe  and  put  it  on  him,  and 
put  a  ring  on  his  hand  and  shoes  on  his  feet ! 

And  even  when  the  Bible  attempts  to  depict  the 
felicities  of  the  world  to  come,  it  does  it,  not  in 
the  phraseology  that  we  employ  in  letters,  but  in  the 
symbolism  that  we  employ  in  the  use  of  envelopes. 
It  speaks  of  robes  and  palms  and  crowns,  for  it 
knows  that  the  wise  will  understand. 


II 


‘WHISTLING  JIGS  TO  MILESTONES^ 

I 

Blueberry  Creek!  Blueberry  Creek!  Where  in 
the  world  was  Blueberry  Creek?  It  was  all  very 
well  for  Conference  to  resolve — in  the  easy  and 
airy  fashion  that  is  so  charmingly  characteristic 
of  Conferences — that  John  Broadbanks  and  I 
should  be  appointed  Ho  visit  and  report  upon  the 
affairs  of  the  congregation  at  Blueberry  Creek' ; 
but  how  on  earth  were  we  to  get  there?  On  that 
point,  the  Conference,  in  its  v^isdom,  had  given  no 
directions :  it  had  not  even  condescended  to  take  so 
mundane  a  detail  into  its  consideration.  A  fearful 
and  wonderful  thing  is  a  Conference.  A  Confer¬ 
ence  is  capable  of  ordering  an  inquiry  into  the  state 
of  the  inhabitants  of  Mars;  and  it  would  appoint 
its  commissioners  without  giving  a  thought  to  the 
ways  and  means  by  which  they  were  to  proceed  to 
the  scene  of  their  investigations.  It  was  altogether 
beneath  the  dignity  of  that  august  body  to  reflect 
that  Blueberry  Creek  is  as  near  to  the  Other  End 
of  Nowhere  as  any  man  need  wish  to  go;  that  it  is 
many  miles  from  a  railway  station  or  a  decent  road; 
and  that  the  only  approach  to  it  is  by  means  of  a 
grassy  track  that,  winding  in  and  out  among  the 


22 


‘Whistling  Jigs  to  Milestones’ 


23 


great  brown  hills,  is,  during  a  large  part  of  the  year, 
impassable.  The  only  indication  of  the  track’s  exis¬ 
tence  consisted  of  a  suspicion  of  wheelntarks  among 
the  tussock. 

When,  at  the  close  of  the  session,  we  met  on 
the  steps  outside  the  hall,  John  and  I  stared  at  each 
other  in  lugubrious  bewilderment.  Then,  seeing, 
as  he  never  failed  to  do,  the  humor  of  the  situation, 
he  burst  into  peals  of  laughter. 

‘Blueberry  Creek!’  he  roared,  as  though  the  very 
name  were  a  joke,  ‘and  how  are  we  to  get  to  Blue¬ 
berry  Creek?’ 

Still,  while  we  admired  the  complacent  audacity 
with  which  the  Conference  had  saddled  us  with  the 
responsibility  of  finding — or  making — a  road  to 
Blueberry  Creek,  zn/e^felt,  as  it  felt,  that  somebody 
ought  to  go.  Allan  Gillespie,  a  young  minister,  who, 
for  seven  years,  had  done  excellent  work  there,  had 
resigned  without  any  apparent  reason.  The  people, 
whose  confidence,  esteem  and  affection  he  had  com¬ 
pletely  won,  were  depressed  and  disheartened;  and 
the  work  stood  in  imminent  peril.  John  used  to 
say  that,  if  you  leave  a  problem  long  enough,  it 
will  solve  itself.  The  way  in  which  the  problem 
of  getting  to  Blueberry  Creek  solved  itself  certainly 
seemed  to  vindicate  his  philosophy. 

T’ve  been  making  inquiries,’  said  Mr.  Alexander 
Mitchell,  a  man  of  few  words  but  of  great  practical 
sagacity,  as  he  met  me  in  the  porch  on  the  last  day 
of  the  Conference,  T’ve  been  making  inquiries 


24 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


about  that  appointment  of  yours.  I  find  that  a 
motor  has  been  through  to  Blueberry.  If  one  can 
do  it,  another  can.  I  have  a  sturdy  little  car  that 
will  get  there  if  it  is  possible  for  four  wheels  to  do 
it.  My  business  will  take  me  as  far  as  Crannington 
next  week,  so  that  I  shall  then  be  two-thirds  of  the 
way  to  Blueberry.  If  you  and  Mr.  Broadbanks  care 
to  accompany  me,  we  will  do  our  best  to  get  through. 
I  expect  we  shall  have  a  rough  passage,  but  I  am 
willing  to  take  all  the  risks  if  you  are.’ 

Truth  to  tell,  the  project  was  very  much  to  our 
taste.  In  order  that  we  might  make  an  early  start 
on  the  Tuesday,  we  arranged  that  John  should  spend 
Monday  night  as  our  guest  at  Mosgiel.  He  came, 
and  we  both  awoke  next  morning  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  ourselves.  Civilization  was  quickly  left 
behind.  We  followed  the  road  as  far  as  Cranning¬ 
ton;  had  lunch  there;  and  then  plunged  into  the 
hills.  For  the  next  few  hours  Mr.  Mitchell’s  motor 
— whose  sturdiness  he  had  by  no  means  exagge¬ 
rated — was  crashing  its  way  through  scrub  and 
fern ;  clambering  over  rocky  boulders ;  gliding  down 
precipitous  gradients ;  edging  its  course  along 
shelves  cut  in  the  hillside;  and  splashing  through  the 
stream  whose  tortuous  folds  awaited  us  in  every 
hollow.  At  about  five  o’clock  we  emerged  upon  a 
great  plain  covered  with  tussock;  we  made  out  a 
cluster  of  cottages  in  the  distance;  and  we  knew 
that,  at  last,  we  had  come  to  Blueberry  Creek. 

‘Why,  here  is  Allan!’  exclaimed  John,  as  he 


‘Whistling  Jigs  to  Milestones’ 


25 


pointed  to  a  solitary  horseman  who,  dashing  along 
a  track  that  intersected  ours,  was  evidently  hurrying 
to  join  us. 

We  were  soon  at  the  manse.  Allan  was  not 
married;  his  mother  kept  house  for  him.  ‘My 
father  died  of  consumption,’  he  used  to  say,  ‘and  so 
did  my  grandfather:  I  must  make  sure  that  I  am 
a  citizen  of  this  planet,  and  not  merely  a  visitor, 
before  I  let  any  pretty  girl  make  eyes  at  me !’ 

Our  mission  was  quite  unavailing.  John  and  I 
had  a  long  talk  with  Allan  after  tea. 

‘No,’  he  said  at  last,  rising  from  his  chair  and 
pacing  the  room  under  the  stress  of  strong  emotion. 
His  shock  of  fair  wavy  hair  fell  about  his  fore¬ 
head  when  he  was  excited,  and  he  brushed  it  back 
impatiently  with  his  hand.  His  pale  blue  eyes 
burned  at  such  times  as  though  a  fire  were  blazing 
behind  them.  ‘No;  I  feel  that  I  am  whistling  jigs 
to  milestones!  I  am  preaching  to  people,  who, 
while  they  are  very  good  to  me,  make  no  response 
of  any  kind  to  my  message.  They  see  to  it  that 
Mother  and  I  want  for  nothing;  they  bring  us  all 
kinds  of  little  dainties  from  the  farms  and  stations; 
they  share  with  us  whatever’s  going  as  the  seasons 
come  around ;  and  they  welcome  me  into  their  homes 
as  though  I  really  belonged  to  them.  They  are  great 
church  people,  too;  they  attend  the  services  mag¬ 
nificently,  although  they  have  to  come  long  distances 
along  bad  roads  in  all  sorts  of  weather.  They  even 
compliment  me  on  my  sermons,  just  as  a  sleeper, 


26 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


roused  at  midnight  by  the  alarm  of  fire,  might,  with¬ 
out  rising,  praise  the  dramatic  ability  of  the  friend 
who  had  awakened  him.  I’ve  stood  it  as  long  as  I 
can,’  he  cried,  his  lip  quivering  and  his  face  pale 
with  passion,  ‘and  now  I  must  give  it  up.  You 
needn’t  try  to  find  me  another  church;  I  have  no 
wish  to  repeat  the  experience.  I  shall  preach  my 
last  sermon  on  Sunday  week,  and  I  have  chosen  my 
theme.  I  shall  preach,’  he  said,  coming  right  up 
to  us  and  transfixing  us  with  eyes  whose  glowing 
fervor  seemed  to  scorch  us,  ‘I  shall  preach  on  the 
Unpardonable  Sin!  I  shall  preach  as  gently  and 
as  persuasively,  but  as  powerfully,  as  I  know  how. 
But  that  will  be  my  subject.  For  the  Unpardonable 
Sin  is  to  tamper  with  your  oracle,  to  be  disloyal  to 
your  vision,  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  the  truth !’ 

Allan  had  an  appointment  that  evening.  Mr. 
Mitchell,  exhausted  by  his  long  drive,  retired  early. 
John  and  I  excused  ourselves  and  set  off  for  a  walk 
across  the  plain.  For  a  while  we  journeyed  in 
silence,  enjoying  the  sunset,  the  song  of  the  birds 
and  the  evening  air.  Allan’s  words,  too,  had  taken 
a  strong  hold  upon  us. 

‘There’s  a  lot  in  what  he  says,’  John  remarked 
at  length,  ‘especially  in  his  exposition  of  the  Unpar¬ 
donable  Sin.  Strangely  enough,  I  was  looking  into 
the  subject  only  a  few  days  ago.  The  popular  inter¬ 
pretation  is,  of  course,  absurd  upon  the  face  of  it. 
You  remember  George  Borrow’s  story  of  Peter 
Williams.  Peter,  as  a  boy  of  seven,  came  upon  the 


‘Whistling  Jigs  to  Milestones^ 


27 


passage  about  the  Unpardonable  Sin  and  took  it 
into  his  head  that  he  could  dispose  of  religion  for 
the  rest  of  his  life  by  the  simple  process  of  commit¬ 
ting  that  deadly  transgression.  Arising  from  his 
bed  one  night,  he  went  out  into  the  open  air,  had 
a  good  look  at  the  stars,  and  then,  stretching  him¬ 
self  upon  the  ground  and  supporting  his  face  with 
his  hands,  the  little  idiot  poured  out  such  a  hideous 
torrent  of  blasphemy  as,  he  believed,  would  destroy 
his  soul  for  ever.  For  years  the  memory  of  that 
solemn  act  of  spiritual  self-destruction  darkened  all 
his  days  and  haunted  all  his  nights.  He  tormented 
himself,  as  Bunyan  did,  with  the  conviction  that  he 
had  committed  the  sin  for  which  there  is  no  for¬ 
giveness.  It  ended  as  it  did  with  Bunyan,  and  as  it 
always  does.  Chrysostom  says  that  it  is  notorious 
that  men  who  imagine  that  they  have  committed  the 
sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost  invariably  become  Chris¬ 
tians  and  lead  exemplary  lives.’ 

We  came  at  that  moment  to  the  banks  of  the 
creek ;  the  waters  were  sparkling  in  the  moonlight ; 
we  instinctively  seated  ourselves  among  the  ferns. 

‘Allan’s  interpretation,’  John  went  on,  ‘is  much 
nearer  the  mark.  The  words  were  addressed  in  the 
first  instance  to  men  who  declared  that  Christ  cast 
out  devils  by  the  prince  of  the  devils.  The  thing 
is  ridiculous;  it  is  a  contradiction  in  terms.  Why 
should  the  prince  of  the  devils  occupy  himself  with 
casting  out  devils  ?  The  men  who  said  such  a  thing 
were  simply  talking  for  the  sake  of  talking.  They 


28 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


were  putting  no  brain  into  it.  They  were  stultify¬ 
ing  reason ;  and  the  man  who  stultifies  his  reason  is 
darkening  his  own  windows.  He  is,  as  Allan  put 
it,  tampering  with  hrs  oracle ;  he  is  playing  fast  and 
loose  with  the  truth.  A  fellow  may  behave  in  the 
same  way  towards  his  conscience  or  towards  any 
other  means  of  moral  or  spiritual  illumination.  As 
soon  as  he  does  that  kind  of  thing,  he  shuts  the  door 
in  his  own  face;  he  puts  himself  beyond  the  possi¬ 
bility  of  salvation.  And,  when  I  was  dipping  into 
the  matter  at  Silverstream  a  few  nights  since,  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  passage  about  the 
Unpardonable  Sin  simply  means  this :  the  men  who, 
in  the  old  Galilean  days,  distorted  the  evidence  of 
the  miracles  and  rejected  the  testimony  of  the  Son 
of  Man,  were  guilty  of  a  serious  offence ;  but  it  was 
a  venial  offence:  for,  after  all,  it  was  not  easy  to 
realize  that  a  Nazarene  peasant  was  the  Son  of 
i  God.  But  those  to  whom  the  fullness  of  the  Gospel 
has  come,  and  upon  whom  the  light  of  the  ages  has 
shone,  how  shall  they  be  made  the  recipients  of  the 
divine  grace  if  they  deliberately  block  every  chan¬ 
nel  by  which  that  grace  may  approach  them?  If 
they  stultify  their  reasons  and  harden  their  hearts; 
if,  as  Allan  says,  they  tamper  with  their  oracles  and 
play  fast  and  loose  with  the  truth,  what  hope  is 
there  for  them?  I  am  sorry  to  see  poor  old  Allan 
taking  the  apathy  of  his  congregation  so  much  to 
heart :  but  most  of  us  would  make  better  ministers 
if  we  took  it  to  heart  a  little  more.' 


‘Whistling  Jigs  to  Milestones’ 


29 


We  discussed  the  matter  for  an  hour  or  so,  our 
conversation  punctuated  by  the  splashing  of  the 
trout  in  the  creek;  and  then,  feeling  that  it  was 
getting  chilly,  we  rose  and  walked  back  to  the  manse. 
Allan,  to  our  surprise,  was  already  there. 

‘Now,  look,’  he  said,  as  he  seated  himself  in  his 
armchair,  and  began  to  poke  the  fire,  ‘you  two  men 
have  come  up  here  to  talk  me  out  of  my  decision; 
and  Fm  delighted  to  see  you.  But  tell  me  this. 

A  few  years  ago  nobody  could  talk  about  the  things 
of  which  I  speak  every  Sunday  without  moving 
people  to  deep  emotion.  I  have  been  reading  the 
records  of  Wesley  and  Whitefield  and  Spurgeon. 
Why,  bless  me,  it  was  nothing  for  those  men  to  see  a 
whole  audience  bathed  in  tears.  Whitefield  would 
have  the  Kingswood  miners  crying  like  babies. 
Why  do  I  never  see  any  evidence  of  deep  feeling? 
that’s  what  I  want  to  know.  You  may  say  that  it’s 
because  I  don’t  preach  as  Wesley  and  Whitefield 
and  Spurgeon  preached.  I  thought  until  lately  that 
that  was  the  explanation.  But  Fve  given  up  that  " 
theory:  it  won’t  work.  Livingstone  has  a  story 
about  old  Baba,  a  native  chief,  who  bore  the  most 
excruciating  torture  without  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid 
or  the  contraction  of  a  muscle.  Yet,  when  Living¬ 
stone  read  to  him  the  story  of  the  crucifixion,  he  was 
melted  to  tears.  No  flights  of  rhetoric,  mark  you! 
Just  the  reading  of  the  New  Testament,  without 
note  or  comment!  Now  Fve  read  that  same  story 
to  my  people;  and  who  was  much  affected  by  it? 


30 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


Then  look  at  Spurgeon!  Why,  Spurgeon,  anxious 
to  test  the  acoustic  properties  of  his  new  Taber¬ 
nacle,  entered  the  pulpit,  believing  the  building  to 
be  empty,  and  exclaimed,  ^Behold  the  Lamb  of  God 
that  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world!'  A  workman, 
concealed  among  the  empty  pews,  heard  the  words, 

’  listened,  heard  them  repeated,  and  was  profoundly 
stirred  by  them.  He  laid  down  his  tools,  sought  an 
interview  with  Spurgeon,  and  was  led  into  a  life  of 
useful  and  happy  service.  No  sermon,  mark  you; 
just  a  text!  Why,  Fve  quoted  that  same  text  scores 
of  times,  and  who  came  to  me  enquiring  the  way  of 
salvation?  I  shall  say  all  this  in  my  farewell  ser¬ 
mon.  I  shall  say  it  as  kindly  as  I  can,  for  the 
people  have  been  wonderfully  good  to  me;  but  it 
is  my  duty  to  say  it.  And  Tm  going  to  recite  a  few 
verses  of  poetry.  Would  you  like  to  hear  them? 
I  haven^t  memorized  them  yet.  I  only  came  upon 
them  yesterday.’ 

He  slipped  off  to  another  room  and  returned  with 
a  volume  of  poems  by  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox.  Open¬ 
ing  it,  he  read  to  us  some  verses  entitled  The  Two 
Sunsets.  They  tell  how  a  young  fellow,  of  pure 
heart  and  simple  ways,  saw  a  sunset  and  heard  a 
song.  As  the  sinking  sun  filled  the  western  sky 
with  crimson  and  gold — 

He  looked,  and  as  he  looked,  the  sight. 

Sent  from  his  soul  through  breast  and  brain 
Such  intense  joy,  it  hurt  like  pain. 

His  heart  seemed  bursting  with  delight. 


‘Whistling  Jigs  to  Milestones' 


31 


So  near  the  unknown  seemed,  so  close 
He  might  have  grasped  it  with  his  hand. 
He  felt  his  inmost  soul  expand, 

As  sunlight  will  expand  a  rose. 


And  after  the  story  of  the  sunset  we  have  the 
story  of  the  song : 

One  day  he  heard  a  singing  strain — 

A  human  voice,  in  bird-like  trills. 

He  paused,  and  little  rapture-rills 
Went  trickling  downward  through  each  vein. 

And  then  the  years  went  by.  Queen  Folly  held 
her  sway.  She  fed  his  flesh  and  drugged  his  mind ; 
he  trailed  his  glory  in  the  mire.  And,  after  a  long 
interval,  he  revisited  his  boyhood's  home,  beheld 
another  sunset  and  heard  another  song: 

The  clouds  made  day  a  gorgeous  bed; 

He  saw  the  splendor  of  the  sky 
With  unmoved  heart  and  stolid  eye; 

He  only  knew  the  West  was  red. 

Then,  suddenly,  a  fresh  young  voice 
Rose,  bird-like,  from  some  hidden  place; 

He  did  not  even  turn  his  face, 

It  struck  him  simply  as  a  noise! 

He  saw  the  sunset  that  once  filled  him  with 
ecstasy ;  but  he  saw  it  'with  unmoved  heart  and  stdlid 
eye’ !  He  heard  the  song  that  once  sounded  to  him 
like  the  voice  of  angels,  and  'it  struck  him  simply 
as  a  noise!’ 

'That’s  the  Unpardonable  Sin!'  exclaimed  Allan, 


32 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


gathering  fervor  as  he  proceeded.  He  sprang  from 
his  chair  and  stood  facing  us,  his  back  to  the  fire. 
*Thafs  the  Unpardonable  Sin!  Miss  Wilcox  as 
good  as  says  so.  Listen  1 

O !  worst  of  punishments,  that  brings 
A  blunting  of  all  finer  sense, 

A  loss  of  feelings  keen,  intense. 

And  dulls  us  to  the  higher  things. 

O !  shape  more  hideous  and  more  dread, 

Than  Vengeance  takes  in  Creed-taught  minds. 

This  certain  doom  that  blunts  and  blinds. 

And  strikes  the  holiest  feelings  dead!  ^ 

This  vehement  recital  brought  on  a  violent  fit  of 
coughing  and  he  left  the  room.  When  he  returned 
we  made  no  attempt  to  reply  to  him.  We  felt  that 
the  case  did  not  lend  itself  to  argument.  We  fondly 
wished  that  we  could  have  retained  him  for  the 
ministry.  His  burning  passion  would  have  glorified 
any  pulpit.  But  what  could  we  say  ? 

We  were  astir  early  next  morning.  Mr.  Mitchell 
was  up  soon  after  dawn  getting  the  car  ready  for 
the  road.  After  breakfast,  John  led  us  all  in  family 
worship.  Very  graciously  and  very  feelingly  he 
committed  the  young  minister  to  the  divine  guid¬ 
ance  and  care.  He  specially  pleaded  that  the  clos¬ 
ing  days  of  his  ministry  might  be  a  season  in  which 
rich  fruit  should  be  gathered  and  lasting  impressions 
made.  ^And,*  he  continued,  ‘may  the  tears  that 
he  sheds  as  he  takes  farewell  of  his  people  soften 
his  heart  towards  them  and  wash  from  his  eyes  the 


‘Whistling  Jigs  to  Milestones' 


33 


vision  of  their  indifference.  And  may  he  be  aston¬ 
ished  in  the  Great  Day  at  the  abundant  response 
which  their  hearts  have  made  to  the  Word  that  he 
has  preached  among  them.'  Half  an  hour  later  we 
were  again  speeding  towards  the  hills,  Allan  and 
his  mother  waving  to  us  from  the  gate. 

Ill 

Allan  was  as  good  as  his  word;  after  leaving 
Blueberry  he  never  preached  again.  ‘I  must  have 
a  rest  for  a  month  or  two,'  he  said.  ‘I  saved  a 
little  money  at  Blueberry,  and  I  can  afford  to  take 
life  easily  for  a  while  and  think  things  over.  The 
next  that  I  heard  of  him  was  in  a  letter,  which 
some  years  later  I  received  from  John  Broadbanks. 
‘Poor  old  Allan  Gillespie  has  gone,'  he  told  me. 
‘His  lungs  went  all  to  pieces  after  he  left  Blueberry; 
the  tonic  air  of  the  hills  kept  him  alive  up  there. 
He  went  to  the  Mount  Stewart  Sanatorium;  but 
it  was  too  late.  He  died  there  three  weeks  later. 
I  always  felt  that  his  fervent  spirit  made  too  heavy 
a  demand  upon  so  frail  a  frame.  His  mother  was 
much  touched  by  the  letters  she  received  from 
Blueberry.  Crowds  of  young  people  wrote  to  say 
that  they  could  never  forget  the  things  that,  in 
public  and  in  private,  Allan  had  said  to  them ;  they 
owed  everything,  some  of  them  added,  to  his  intense 
devoted  ministry.  It  looks  as  if  they  were  not  so 
irresponsive  as  they  seemed.' 


34 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


I  suspect  that  this  is  usually  so.  People  are 
not  so  adamantine  as  they  like  to  look.  Still,  John 
and  I  will  always  feel  that  Allan  taught  us  to  take 
our  work  a  little  more  seriously.  Whenever  we 
are  tempted  to  lower  our  ideals,  or  to  settle  down 
complacently  to  things  as  they  are,  his  great  eyes — 
so  full  of  solicitude  and  passion — seem  to  pierce  our 
very  souls  and  sting  us  to  concern. 


Ill 


THE  FRONT-DOOR  BELL 

A  FEARFUL  and  wonderful  contrivance  is  a  front¬ 
door  bell.  The  wire  attached  to  my  front-door  bell 
is  the  line  of  communication  between  me  and  the 
universe.  The  universe  knows  it — and  so  do  T. 
The  front-door  bell  is  the  one  thing  about  a  pri¬ 
vate  dwelling  that  is  public  property.  If  a  stranger 
walked  in  at  the  front  gate  and  began  to  push  or 
pull  at  anything  else,  I  should  instantly  send  for 
the  police;  but  if,  with  all  the  confidence  of  pro¬ 
prietorship,  he  walks  straight  to  the  front-door  bell, 
and  begins  to  push  or  pull  at  it,  I  regard  the  position 
as  perfectly  normal.  No  man  living  may  enter  my 
gate  in  order  to  inspect  the  roses,  to  admire  the 
view  or  to  stroke  the  cat.  But  any  one  has  a  per¬ 
fect  right  to  walk  boldly  up  the  path  and  ring  the 
front-door  bell.  A  man  may  do  what  he  will  with 
his  own;  and  the  bell  is  his.  It  is  more  his  than 
mine.  It  is  perfectly  true  that  I  ordered  the  bell 
to  be  put  there,  and  that  I  paid  for  it ;  but  it  is  also 
true  that  I  am  the  only  person  on  the  planet  to  whom 
it  is  of  no  use  at  all.  A  visitor  from  Mars,  seeing 
the  bellhangers  working  to  my  order,  might  be 
pardoned  for  supposing  that  I  was  gratifying  in  this 
way  my  insatiable  passion  for  music.  Not  at  all. 

35 


36 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


In  giving  the  order  for  the  bell,  I  was  actuated  by 
no  selfish  motive.  The  bell  at  my  front  door  is  not 
my  bell.  It  is  everybody’s  bell — everybody’s,  that 
is  to  say,  but  mine. 

That  is  why  such  a  thrill  runs  through  the  house 
when  the  bell  rings.  It  is  one  of  the  sensations  of 
the  commonplace.  A  ring  at  the  front-door  bell  is 
a  bolt  from  the  blue,  a  call  from  the  vast,  a  message 
from  out  of  the  infinite.  It  presents  to  the  imagina¬ 
tion  such  a  boundless  range  of  possibilities.  There 
are  fifteen  hundred  million  people  on  the  planet, 
and  this  may  be  any  one  of  them.  It  may  be  a 
hawker  with  the  inevitable  cake  of  soap — a  cake 
of  soap  that  he,  poor  man,  appears  to  need  so  much 
more  than  I  do.  It  may  be  the  telegraph-boy  with 
some  startlingly  pleasant  or  poignantly  painful 
message.  It  may  be  the  very  man  I  want  to  see  or 
the  very  man  I  don’t.  Or,  then  again,  it  may  be 
‘only  Sam.’  Everybody  knows  the  accents  of  in¬ 
effable  disdain  in  which  it  is  announced  that  the 
ringer  of  the  bell  is  simply  a  member  of  the  family 
circle.  It  may  be  anybody;  that  is  the  point. 
When  the  front-door  bell  rings,  you  are  prepared 
for  anything.  You  feel,  as  you  await  the  announce¬ 
ment,  that  you  have  suddenly  dipped  your  hand 
into  the  lucky-bag  of  the  universe,  and  you  are  in 
a  flutter  of  curiosity  as  to  what  you  are  about  to 
draw.  Tinker,  tailor,  soldier,  sailor  ;  rich  man,  poor 
man,  begger  man,  thief ;  why  is  the  girl  so  long  in 
returning  from  the  door?  Smiles,  frowns,  laugh- 


The  Front-Door  Bell 


37 


ter,  tears  ;  they  may  any  of  them  come  with  the 
ringing  of  the  front-door  bell.  When  the  bell  rings, 
you  are  eating  your  dinner,  or  reading  the  paper, 
or  romping  with  the  children,  or  chatting  easily 
beside  the  fire.  The  atmosphere  is  perfectly  tran¬ 
quil;  all  the  wheels  are  running  smoothly;  life  is 
without  a  thrill.  The  bell  rings;  all  eyes  are  lifted; 
each  member  of  the  household  glances  inquiringly 
at  all  the  others;  is  anybody  expecting  anybody? 
We  vaguely  feel,  when  the  bell  rings,  that  life  is 
about  to  enter  upon  a  fresh  phase.  Whether  the 
change  will  be  for  weal  or  for  woe,  for  better  or 
for  worse,  we  cannot  tell.  We  only  know  that 
things  are  not  likely  to  be  quite  the  same  again. 
Somebody  will  come  in,  or  somebody  will  be  called 
out,  or  something  fresh  will  have  to  be  done.  The 
cards  of  life  are  all  shuffied  and  dealt  afresh  at  the 
ringing  of  the  front-door  bell. 

But  it  was  not  of  my  own  bell  that  I  set  out  to 
write.  My  own  bell  is  not  my  own  bell ;  why,  then, 
should  I  write  of  it?  I  prefer  to  write  of  the  bells 
that  do  belong  to  me.  The  next-door  bell  is  my 
bell;  and  the  bell  of  the  house  beyond  that;  and  so 
on  to  the  end  of  space.  For,  if  it  is  humiliating  to 
reflect  that  the  bell  at  my  own  door  is  not  mine, 
it  is  extremely  gratifying  to  be  reminded  that, 
beyond  my  door,  there  are  millions  and  millions  of 
bells  that  I  can  proudly  call  my  own.  I  am  not 
generally  considered  musical;  but  I  spend  a  good 
deal  of  my  time  in  bell-ringing.  And  I  propose  to 


38 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


describe  one  or  two  instruments  on  which,  at  some 
time  or  other,  I  have  performed. 

I 

To  begin  with,  there  is  the  hell  that  is  not  work¬ 
ing,  To  all  outward  appearance,  the  mechanism 
may  be  complete.  You  press  the  neat  little  button 
and  then  airily  turn  your  back  upon  it,  happy  in  the 
conviction  that  you  have  sent  a  delicious  flutter 
through  every  soul  on  the  premises.  In  point  of 
fact  you  have  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  Things 
within  are  going  on  just  as  they  were  when  you 
opened  the  gate;  nobody  has  the  slightest  suspicion 
that  you  are  cooling  your  heels  on  the  doormat.  The 
electric  battery  is  exhausted.  Beyond  a  scarcely 
perceptible  click  when  your  fingers  pressed  the  but¬ 
ton,  you  made  no  noise  at  all.  That  is  the  worst 
of  life’s  most  tragic  collapses.  There  is  nothing  to 
indicate  the  break-down.  The  failure  does  not 
advertise  itself.  'Samson  said,  I  will  go  out  as  at 
other  times  and  shake  myself ;  and  he  wist  not  that 
the  Lord  was  departed  from  him/  The  button  and 
the  bell  were  there;  how  was  he  to  know  that  the 
current  had  vanished?  The  preacher  enters  his 
pulpit  as  of  old ;  who  could  have  suspected  that  the 
invisible  force,  without  which  everything  is  so  piti¬ 
fully  ineffective,  had  forsaken  him.  The  worker  is 
still  in  his  place;  who  would  have  dreamed  that, 
having  lost  his  old  power,  his  influence  now  counts 
for  so  little?  Lots  of  people  fancy  that  a  button 


The  Front-Door  Bell 


39 


and  a  bell  complete  the  requisites  of  life.  Because 
the  external  appliances  are  in  good  order,  they  take 
it  for  granted  that  everything  is  working  satisfac¬ 
torily.  It  is  a  woeful  blunder.  The  button  may  be 
there;  and  the  bell  may  be  there;  yet  the  entire  out¬ 
fit  may  be  destitute  of  all  practical  utility.  I  called 
at  a  house  last  week.  Outside  there  was  a  button 
and  inside  there  was  a  bell.  I  pressed  the  button 
several  times  and  only  discovered  afterwards  that 
the  mechanism  to  which  it  was  attached  gave  the 
lady  of  the  house  no  intimation  of  my  presence  at 
her  door.  The  bell  was  not  working. 

A  bell  that  is  out  of  action  represents  a  broken 
line  of  communication  between  the  individual  and 
the  universe.  Some  time  ago  my  bell  broke  down. 
I  heard  every  day  of  people  who  had  called  and 
gone  away,  fancying  that  nobody  was  at  home. 
I  wondered  every  night  what  I  had  missed  during 
the  day  through  being  out  of  touch  with  the  world. 
The  broken  bell  had  turned  me  into  a  hermit,  an 
exile,  a  recluse.  People  might  want  me  never  so 
badly;  they  could  not  get  at  me.  I  might  want 
them  never  so  badly;  they  left  the  door  without  my 
seeing  them. 

The  saddest  case  of  this  kind  that  ever  came 
under  my  notice  occurred  at  Hobart.  A  gentleman 
called  one  day  and  made  it  clear  that  his  business 
was  marked  by  gravity  and  urgency. 

‘My  name,’  he  said,  ‘is  McArthur.  My  mother 
is  lying  very  ill  at  the  Homeopathic  Hospital.  It 


40 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


would  be  a  great  comfort  to  us  all,  and  to  her,  if 
you  could  run  up  and  see  her.  She  has  often  asked 
us  to  send  for  you;  but  we  have  always  put  it  off. 
It  seemed  like  encouraging  her  in  the  notion  that 
her  days  were  few.  But  now  we  shall  be  very  glad 
if  you  will  go.  I  ought  to  tell  you,  though,  that 
my  mother  is  very  deaf.  You  will  not  be  able  to 
make  her  hear.  But  you  will  find  a  slate  and  pencil 
at  the  bedside.  If  you  write  on  it  whatever  you 
wish  to  say,  she  will  be  able  to  read  it  and  reply 
to  you.’ 

I  went  at  once.  When  I  told  the  matron  that  I 
had  come  to  see  Mrs.  McArthur,  a  strange  look  over¬ 
spread  her  face  and  she  drew  me  into  her  private 
room. 

‘Is  she  dead  ?’  I  asked,  ‘or  unconscious  ?’ 

‘Oh,  no,’  the  matron  replied,  ‘she  is  alive  and 
quite  conscious.  But  during  the  last  few  hours 
her  sight  has  failed  her.  She  can  only  see  us  like 
shadows  between  herself  and  the  window.  I  don’t 
know  how  you  will  be  able  to  communicate  with 
her.’ 

I  never  felt  so  helpless  in  my  life.  As  I  stood 
by  her  bedside  she  seemed  so  near,  yet  so  very 
far  away.  I  stroked  her  forehead  and  she  smiled ; 
but  that  was  all.  I  was  standing  on  the  doormat 
pressing  the  button;  but  the  bell  was  not  working. 
I  could  not  establish  communication  with  the  soul 
within.  It  is  a  way  that  bells  have.  The  current 
becomes  exhausted  sooner  or  later.  It  is  clearly 


41 


The  Front-Door  Bell 

\ 

intended  that,  while  we  are  in  touch  with  the 
universe,  we  should  learn  all  that  the  universe  can 
teach  us,  so  that,  when  the  line  of  communication 
collapses,  we  shall  be  independent  of  the  universe 
and  need  its  messages  no  more. 

II 

Then  there  is  the  hell  that,  when  I  press  the  button, 
rings  without  my  hearing  it.  One  day  last  week  I 
called  at  a  house  in  Winchester  Avenue.  I  pressed 
the  button  several  times,  listening  intently.  I  could 
hear  no  sound  within.  I  tapped ;  but  still  everything 
was  silent.  I  was  just  stooping  to  slip  my  card 
under  the  door  when,  suddenly,  I  heard  a  rush  and 
a  commotion  within,  and  in  a  moment,  Mrs.  Finch, 
full  of  charming  apologies,  stood  before  me.  She 
had  heard  the  bell  each  time;  but  her  maid  was  out; 
she  was  herself  completing  her  toilet ;  she  was  dread¬ 
fully  ashamed  to  have  kept  me  waiting. 

We  are  too  apt  to  suppose  that  our  pressure  of 
the  button  is  awakening  no  response.  We  fancy 
that  our  words  fall  upon  deaf  ears.  People  appear 
to  take  no  notice.  Perhaps,  if  we  knew  all,  we 
should  discover  that  while  we  press,  and  listen,  and 
hear  nothing,  we  are  all  unconsciously  throwing 
some  gentle  spirit  into  a  perfect  fever  of  agitation. 

I  pressed  the  button  at  my  neighbor’s  door; 

But,  when  I  heard  no  sound,  I  turned  and  stood 
Irresolute.  If  I  had  moved  a  bell 
I  must  have  heard  it.  Should  I  rap,  or  go? 

But  in  a  moment  more  my  neighbor  came. 


42 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


‘The  bell  is  far,  and  very  small,’  he  said. 

‘You  may  not  catch  it  for  the  walls  between 
But  rest  assured,  each  time  you  push  the  knob 
We  cannot  choose  but  hear  the  bell  inside.’ 


And  what  they  told  me  of  my  neighbor’s  bell 
Has  cheered  me  when  I  knocked  at  some  hard  heart 
And  caught  no  answer.  Now  and  then 
I  poured  my  soul  out  in  a  hot  appeal 
And  had  no  sign  from  lip,  or  hand,  or  eye, 

That  he  I  would  have  saved  had  even  heard. 

And  I  have  sighed  and  turned  away;  and  then 
My  neighbor’s  words  came  back:  ‘We  cannot  choose 
But  hear  inside.’ 

And  after  many  days 

I  have  had  an  answer  to  a  word  I  spoke 
In  ears  that  seemed  as  deaf  as  dead  men’s  ears. 

I  was  twelve  years  at  Mosgiel  in  New  Zealand. 
I  always  felt  that  the  men  and  women,  and  especially 
the  old  people,  were  attached  to  me ;  but,  somehow, 
I  was  never  as  successful  with  the  children  as  I 
should  like  to  have  been.  I  was  very  fond  of  them; 
I  loved  to  meet  them,  play  with  them,  talk  with 
them;  but  I  saw  them  grow  up  to  be  young  men 
and  women  without  being  impressed  in  any  way 
by  any  word  of  mine.  That  was  the  bitterest  in¬ 
gredient  in  my  sorrow  when,  fifteen  years  ago,  I 
left  that  little  country  town. 

During  the  past  three  years  I  have  traveled 
Australia  from  end  to  end.  In  a  railway  journey 
of  seven  thousand  miles  I  have  crossed  and  recrossed 
the  entire  continent.  And  one  of  the  most  delight- 


The  Front-Door  Bell 


43 


ful  experiences  of  this  great  trip  was  to  meet  my 
old  Mosgiel  boys  and  girls  at  every  turn.  One  girl 
came,  with  her  husband,  a  hundred  miles  to  spend 
five  minutes  with  me  at  the  railway  station;  others 
traveled  with  me  for  twenty  or  thirty  miles  just 
for  the  sake  of  the  talk  in  the  train.  Without  an 
exception,  they  were  all  well  and  happy  and  living 
useful  lives.  In  every  case  they  reminded  me  of 
things  that  I  had  said  and  done  in  the  old  days — 
things  that,  as  I  fancied,  had  made  no  impression 
at  all.  And  when  I  returned  to  the  quiet  of  my 
own  home,  and  reviewed  all  these  happy  reunions, 
I  felt  ashamed  of  having  suspected  these  young 
people  of  being  irresponsive.  The  bell  often  rings 
without  our  hearing  it. 

Ill 

On  the  other  hand,  it  does  occasionally  happen 
that,  when  I  press  the  button,  the  bell  rings;  I 
myself,  standing  on  the  doormat,  distinctly  hear 
it;  yet  it  is  not  heard  by  those  upon  whom  I  hav( 
called. 

T  am  so  sorry,'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wilson,  as  she 
left  the  church  last  evening.  T  tpok  my  book  on 
Thursday  afternoon  and  strolled  down  to  the  sum¬ 
mer-house  at  the  foot  of  the  garden;  I  must  have 
become  absorbed  in  the  story;  I  did  not  hear  the 
bell ;  and,  when  I  came  in,  I  found  your  card  under 
the  door.' 

T  say,'  cried  Harry  Blair,  T  am  awfully  sorry. 


44 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


I  must  have  been  at  home  when  you  called.  But 
the  bell  is  at  the  front  of  the  house,  and  we  happened 
to  be  at  the  back.  The  children  were  making  such 
a  din  that  we  never  heard  you.’ 

Precisely!  There  are  those  whose  bells  we  ring 
in  vain.  In  the  days  in  which  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  be  a  minister,  I  fell  under  the  influence  of  the 
Rev.  James  Douglas,  M.A.,  of  Brixton,  a  most 
devout  and  scholarly  man.  He  often  took  me  for 
a  walk  on  Clapham  Common,  and  said  things  to  me 
that  I  have  never  forgotten. 

I  ‘When  you  are  a  minister,’  he  said  one  day,  as 
I  we  sat  under  the  shelter  of  a  giant  oak,  ‘when  you 
are  a  minister,  you  will  find,  wherever  you  go,  that 
^  there  are  a  certain  number  of  people  whom  you  are 
not  fitted  to  influence.  It  is  largely  a  matter  of 
personality  and  temperament.  Don’t  break  your 
heart  over  it.  Satisfy  your  conscience  that  you 
have  done  your  duty  by  them,  and  then  leave  it  at 
that !’ 

It  was  wise  counsel.  There  are  a  certain  number 
of  bells  that,  rung  by  us,  are  not  heard  within. 

IV 

And,  last  and  saddest  of  all,  there  is  the  hell  that 
we  did  not  ring.  We  half  thought  of  it;  we  heard 
afterwards  how  welcome  a  call  would  have  been; 
but  the  contemplated  visit  was  not  paid. 

Around  the  corner  I  have  a  friend, 

In  the  great  city  that  has  no  end. 


The  Front-Door  Bell 


45 


Yet  days  go  by  and  weeks  rush  on, 

And  before  I  know  it  a  year  is  gone; 

And  I  never  see  my  old  friend’s  face, 

For  life  is  a  swift  and  terrible  race. 

He  knows  I  love  him  just  as  well 

As  in  the  days  when  I  rang  his  bell 

And  he  rang  mine.  We  were  younger  then, 

And  now  we  are  busy,  tired  men — 

Tired  with  playing  a  foolish  game, 

Tired  with  trying  to  make  a  name. 

‘To-morrow,*  I  say,  ‘I  will  call  on  Jim, 

Just  to  show  that  I’m  thinking  of  him.’ 

But  to-morrow  comes  and  to-morrow  goes. 

And  the  distance  between  us  grows  and  grows. 
Around  the  corner — yet  miles  away.  .  .  . 

‘Here’s  a  telegram,  sir.’  ‘Jim  died  to-day  1’ 

And  that’s  what  we  get  and  deserve  in  the  end — 
Around  the  corner  a  vanished  friend. 

I  really  intended  to  have  pressed  the  button  at 
Jim’s  door;  but  the  good  intentions  did  not  ring  the 
bell ;  and  I  am  left  to  nurse  my  lifelong  remorse. 

I  really  intended  to  have  answered  the  door  when 
a  Visitor  Divine  stood  gently  knocking  there;  but 
the  good  intention  did  not  let  Him  in;  He  turned 
sadly  and  wearily  away;  and  I  am  left  to  my  shame 
and  my  everlasting  regret. 


IV 


THE  GREEN  CHAIR 
I 

The  green  chair  was  never  occupied.  It  stood — 
according  to  Irving  Bacheller — in  the  home  of 
Michael  Hacket;  and  Michael  Hacket  is  the  most 
lovable  schoolmaster  in  American  literature.  Michael 
Hacket  possessed  a  violin  and  a  microscope.  The 
romps  that  he  led  with  the  one,  and  the  researches 
that  he  conducted  with  the  other,  represented  the 
two  sides  of  his  character;  for  he  was  the  jolliest 
soul  in  all  that  countryside,  and  the  wisest.  But, 
in  addition  to  the  violin  and  the  microscope,  Michael 
Hacket  possessed  a  green  chair;  and  the  green  chair 
was  even  more  valuable,  as  a  revelation  of  the 
schoolmasters  character,  than  either  the  microscope 
or  the  violin.  Barton  Baynes,  the  hero  of  the  story, 
went  as  a  boarder  to  Mr.  Racket's  school ;  and  the 
green  chair  deeply  impressed  him.  When  the  family 
assembled  at  table,  the  green  chair,  always  empty, 
was  always  there.  Before  he  took  his  own  seat, 
Mr.  Hacket  put  his  hand  on  the  back  of  the  green 
chair  and  exclaimed : 

‘A  merry  heart  to  you,  Michael  Henry !' 

It  was  a  rollicking  meal,  that  first  meal  at  which 
Barton  was  present;  the  schoolmaster  was  full  of 

46 


The  Green  Chair 


47 


quips  and  jests;  and  his  clever  sallies  kept  every¬ 
body  bubbling  with  laughter.  Then,  when  all  had 
finished,  he  rose  and  took  the  green  chair  from  the 
table,  exclaiming: 

‘Michael  Henry,  God  bless  you 

T  wondered  at  the  meaning  of  this,^  says  Barton, 
‘but  I  dared  not  ask.’  Shortly  afterwards,  however, 
he  summed  up  courage  to  do  so.  Mr.  Hacket  had 
gone  out. 

‘I’ve  been  all  day  in  the  study,’  the  schoolmaster 
had  said;  ‘I  must  take  a  walk  or  I  shall  get  an 
exalted  abdomen.  One  is  badly  beaten  in  the  race 
of  life  when  his  abdomen  gets  ahead  of  his  toes. 
Children,  keep  Barton  happy  till  I  come  back,  and 
mind  you,  don’t  forget  the  good  fellow  in  the  green 
chair !’ 

He  had  not  been  long  gone  when  the  children 
differed  as  to  the  game  that  they  should  play.  A 
dispute  was  threatening. 

‘Don’t  forget  Michael  Henry!’  said  Mrs.  Hacket, 
reprovingly. 

‘Who  is  Michael  Henry?’  asked  Barton. 

‘Sure,’  replied  Mrs.  Hacket,  ‘he’s  the  child  that 
has  never  been  born.  He  was  to  be  the  biggest  and 
noblest  of  them  all — kind  and  helpful  and  cheery- 
hearted  and  beloved  of  God  above  all  the  others. 
We  try  to  live  up  to  him.’ 

‘He  seemed  to  me,’  said  Barton,  ‘a  very  strange 
and  wonderful  creature — this  invisible  occupant  of 
the  green  chair.  Michael  Henry  was  the  spirit  of 


48 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


their  home,  an  ideal  of  which  the  empty  chair  was 
a  constant  reminder.’ 

When  a  conversation  threatened  to  become  too 
heated,  it  was  always  Michael  Henry  whose  ears 
must  not  be  offended  by  harsh  and  angry  tones;  it 
was  Michael  Henry  who  had  begged  that  a  culprit 
might  be  forgiven  just  this  once:  it  was  Michael 
Henry  who  was  always  suggesting  little  acts  of 
courtesy  and  kindness. 

‘I  like  to  think  of  Michael  Henry,’  the  school¬ 
master  would  say.  ‘His  food  is  good  thoughts  and 
his  wine  is  laughter.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Michael 
Henry  last  night  when  you  were  all  abed.  His  face 
was  a  chunk  of  merriment.  Oh,  what  a  limb  he  is  I 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you  all  the  good  things  he  said  1’ 

But  he  couldn’t ;  and  we  all  know  why. 

There  was  no  Michael  Henry!  And  yet  Michael 
Henry — the  occupant  of  the  green  chair — pervaded 
like  a  perfume  and  ruled  like  a  prince  the  gentle 
schoolmaster’s  delightful  home! 

II 

We  are  very  largely  ruled  by  empty  chairs.  In 
support  of  this  contention  let  me  call  two  or  three 
witnesses.  The  first  is  Clarence  Shadbrook. 

Clarence  was  well  on  in  life  when  I  first  met 
him.  He  struck  me  as  being  reserved,  taciturn, 
unsociable.  It  took  me  several  years,  I  grieve  to 
say,  to  understand  him.  It  was  on  the  occasion 
of  his  wife’s  death  that  I  first  caught  glimpses  of 


The  Green  Chair 


49 


unsuspected  depths  of  tenderness  and  sentiment 
within  him.  Hannah  Shadbrook  was  one  of  our 
most  excellent  women.  She  had  a  kind  thought 
for  everybody.  She  was  the  heart  and  soul  of  our 
ladies’  organizations.  In  every  good  cause  her  hand 
was  promptly  outstretched  to  help.  She  was  espe¬ 
cially  tactful  in  her  dealings  with  the  young  people : 
to  many  of  the  girls  she  was  a  second  mother.  She 
was  tall  and  spare,  with  a  slight  stoop  at  the  shoul¬ 
ders;  her  eyes  were  soft  and  gray;  and  her  face  was 
illumined  by  a  look  of  wonderful  intelligence  and 
sweetness.  She  was  the  sort  of  woman  to  whom 
one  could  tell  anything. 

Somehow,  I  had  always  imagined  that,  at  home, 
she  was  unappreciated.  I  cannot  recall  anything 
that  I  ever  heard  or  saw  that  can  have  given  me 
so  false  and  unfortunate  an  impression.  But  there 
it  was !  And  it  was,  therefore,  with  a  shock  of  sur¬ 
prise  that,  at  the  time  of  her  death,  I  found  the 
strong  and  silent  man  so  utterly  broken  and 
disconsolate. 

‘Ah,’  he  sobbed,  when,  in  a  few  halting  words, 
I  referred  to  the  affection  in  which  his  wife  was 
held  at  the  church,  ‘I  dare  say.  But  it  was  at  home 
that  she  was  at  her  best.  Nobody  will  ever  know 
what  she  was  to  me  and  to  the  children  who  have 
married  and  gone.’ 

But  it  was  not  until  two  years  later  that  he 
opened  his  heart  more  thoroughly.  I  heard  on  a 
certain  Sunday  evening  that  he  was  ill;  and  next 


50 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


day  I  made  my  way  to  the  cottage.  He  was  in 
bed.  I  stepped  across  to  the  window  and  laid  my 
hand  upon  a  chair,  intending  to  transfer  it  to  the 
bedside. 

‘Excuse  me,’  he  said,  ‘but  don’t  take  that  one. 
Would  you  mind  having  the  chair  over  by  the  ward¬ 
robe  instead?’ 

If  the  request  struck  me  as  strange,  the  thought 
only  lingered  for  a  moment.  I  replaced  the  chair 
that  I  was  holding ;  took  the  one  indicated ;  and  dis¬ 
missed  the  matter  from  my  mind. 

‘I  dare  say  you  are  wondering  why  I  asked  you 
not  to  take  the  chair  by  the  window,’  he  said  pres¬ 
ently,  after  we  had  discussed  the  weather,  the  news, 
and  his  prospects  of  a  speedy  recovery.  ‘There’s 
a  story  about  that  chair  that  I’ve  never  told  to  any¬ 
body,  except  to  her’ — glancing  at  a  portrait — ‘but  if 
you’d  like  to  hear  it,  I  don’t  mind  telling  you.’ 

‘Well,’  he  went  on,  assured  of  my  interest,  ‘I  took 
a  fancy  to  that  chair  nearly  fifty  years  ago.  I  was 
learning  wood-carving;  I  thought  that  it  would  suit 
my  purpose :  and  I  bought  it.  It  was  the  first  piece 
of  furniture  that  I  ever  possessed.  I  remember 
laughing  to  myself  as  I  carried  it  to  my  little  room. 
It  stood  beside  the  bed  there  for  a  year  or  two.  Then 
I  met  Hannah.  At  first  I  felt  a  little  bit  afraid  of 
her.  She  seemed  far  too  good  for  me.  But  then, 
I  thought  to  myself,  she  is  far  too  good  for  any¬ 
body.  And  so  our  courtship  began,  and  one  night 
I  came  home  tremendously  excited.  We  were 


The  Green  Chair 


SI 

engaged!  I  lay  awake  for  hours  that  night,  some¬ 
times  painting  wonderful  pictures  of  the  happy  days 
to  be,  and  sometimes  lecturing  myself  as  to  the 
kind  of  man  I  must  become  in  order  to  be  worthy 
of  the  treasure  about  to  be  confided  to  my  care.  And 
I  comforted  myself  with  the  reminder  that  I  should 
have  her  always  beside  me  to  restrain  the  worst 
and  encourage  the  best  that  was  in  me.  And,  think¬ 
ing  such  thoughts,  I  at  length  fell  asleep.  But,  sleep¬ 
ing,  I  went  on  dreaming.  I  thought  that,  coming 
home  tired  from  the  shop,  I  entered  my  little  room 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs  (the  room  in  which  I  was 
actually  sleeping)  and  was  surprised  to  find  it  occu¬ 
pied.  A  man  was  sitting  in  the  chair  beside  the 
bed — the  chair  over  there  by  the  window.  But  I 
could  not  be  angry,  for  he  looked  up  and  welcomed 
me  with  a  smile  that  disarmed  my  suspicions  and 
made  me  feel  that  all  was  well.  I  felt  instantly  and 
powerfully  drawn  to  him.  He  seemed  to  magnetize 
me.  His  face  realized  my  ideal  of  manly  strength, 
tempered  by  an  indefinable  charm  and  courtesy. 
Then,  as  I  gazed,  it  occurred  to  me  that  there  was, 
about  his  countenance  and  bearing,  something 
strangely  familiar.  What  could  it  mean?  Whom 
could  it  be?  And  then  the  truth  flashed  upon  me. 
It  was  myself!  Yes,  it  was  myself  as  I  should  be 
in  the  years  to  come  under  Hannah’s  gentle  and 
gracious  influence!  It  was  myself  transfigured!  I 
awoke  and  found  myself  staring  fixedly  at  the  empty 
chair  beside  the  bed — the  chair  that  you  were  about 


52 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


to  remove  from  the  window  there.  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  day  that  the  chair  should  never  be  used. 
It  is  dedicated  to  the  ideal  self  of  whom  I  caught 
a  glimpse  in  my  boyish  dream.  And,  even  now,  the 
shadowy  visitor  of  that  memorable  night  seems  to 
be  still  sitting  there ;  and  I  never  approach  the  chair 
without  mentally  comparing  myself  with  its  silent 
occupant.^ 

Who  would  have  supposed  that,  beneath  the 
rugged  exterior  of  Clarence  Shadbrook,  there  dwelt 
so  rich  a  vein  of  poetry  and  romance?  I  almost 
apologized  to  him  for  my  earlier  judgment.  It  only 
shows  that,  like  the  first  Australian  explorers,  we 
may  tread  the  gold  beneath  our  feet  without  sus¬ 
pecting  its  existence. 


Ill 

My  second  witness  is  Harold  Glendinning.  Har¬ 
old  was  the  minister  at  Port  Eyre,  a  little  seaside 
town  close  to  the ‘harbor’s  mouth.  He  had  frequently 
asked  me  to  exchange  pulpits  with  him,  and  at  last 
he  had  coaxed  me  to  consent. 

^Come  early  on  Saturday,’  he  wrote,  ‘so  that  we 
may  have  an  hour  or  two  together  here  before  I 
have  to  leave.’ 

Like  Clarence  Shadbrook,  Harold  was  a  widower. 
But,  unlike  Clarence,  he  was  still  young.  His  wife 
had  faded  and  died  after  three  short  years  of  mar¬ 
ried  life.  His  mother  kept  house  for  him  at  the 
manse. 


The  Green  Chair 


53 


I  reached  Port  Eyre  early  on  the  Saturday.  We 
went  for  a  walk  round  the  rocky  coast  before 
dinner;  and  in  the  afternoon  Harold  made  prepara¬ 
tions  for  departure. 

‘But,  dear  me,’  he  exclaimed,  ‘I  haven’t  shown 
you  your  room.  Come  with  me!’  And  he  led  me 
out  into  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs. 

The  room  was  obviously  his  own.  Photographs 
of  his  young  wife  were  everywhere.  Her  presence 
pervaded  it.  The  window  commanded  a  noble  view 
of  the  bay,  and  we  stood  for  a  minute  or  two  admir¬ 
ing  the  prospect.  We  then  turned  towards  the 
door. 

‘Treat  the  place  as  though  it  belonged  to  you,’ 
he  said.  ‘Make  yourself  perfectly  at  home.  You’re 
welcome  to  everything  except — ’  He  half-closed 
the  door  again. 

‘You’ll  understand,  I  know,’  he  went  on,  ‘but 
don’t  use  the  armchair  over  there  in  the  corner.’ 
I  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated  by  his  gaze. 
A  comfortable  chair  stood  beside  a  small  occasional 
table  on  which  a  lovely  bowl  of  roses  had  been 
placed. 

‘It’s  her  chair,’  he  explained.  ‘It  used  to  stand 
by  the  fireplace  in  the  dining-room.  She  sat  there 
every  evening,  reading  or  sewing,  with  her  feet  rest¬ 
ing  on  her  campstool.’  I  noticed  now  that  a  folded 
campstool  stood  near  the  chair.  ‘Somehow,’  he 
continued,  ‘the  chair  seemed  to  become  a  part  of 
her.  And  after — afterwards — I  couldn’t  bear  to 


54 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


leave  it  there  for  anybody  to  occupy  who  happened 
to  call;  so  I  brought  it  up  here.  And,  somehow, 
with  the  chair  there,  she  doesn’t  seem  so  very  far 
away.  I’ll  show  you  something  else,’  he  said;  and, 
diving  into  a  drawer  near  his  hand,  he  produced  an 
old  magazine. 

‘I  only  found  this  afterwards,’  he  explained.  'At 
least  I  only  noticed  the  marked  passage.  I  saw  it 
in  her  lap  several  times  during  the  last  week  or  two, 
and,  in  an  off-hand  way,  I  picked  it  up  and  glanced 
through  it.  But  it  was  only  after — afterwards — - 
that  I  noticed  that  faint  pencil-mark  beside  this 
poem.’  He  handed  me  the  magazine,  and,  surely 
enough,  I  detected  a  mark,  so  faint  as  to  be  scarcely 
visible,  beside  some  lines  by  L.  C.  Jack. 

When  day  is  done  and  in  the  golden  west 
My  soul  from  yours  sinks  slowly  out  of  sight, 

And  you  alone  enjoy  the  warmth  and  light 
That  once  had  seemed  of  all  God’s  gifts  the  best; 

When  roses  bloom  and  I  not  there  to  name, 

When  thrushes  sing  and  I  not  there  to  hear,  . 

When  rippling  laughter  breaks  upon  your  ear 
And  friends  come  flocking  as  of  old  they  came; 

I  pray,  dear  heart,  for  sweet  Remembrance  sake 
You  pluck  the  rose  and  hear  the  songful  thrush. 

With  laughter  meet  once  more  the  merry  jest 
And  greet  familiar  faces  still  awake, 

For  I,  asleep  in  the  eternal  Hush, 

Would  have  you  ever  at  your  golden  best. 


'You  may  think  it  strange,’  he  concluded,  as  we 
turned  to  leave  the  room,  ‘but  I  often  fancy  that  the 


The  Green  Chair 


55 


chair  in  the  corner  makes  it  a  little  more  easy  for 
me  to  live  in  the  spirit  of  those  lines.’ 

IV 

I  had  intended  calling  several  other  witnesses; 
but  I  must  be  content  with  one.  Alec  Fraser  was 
a  little  old  Scotsman,  who  lived  about  seven  miles 
out  from  Mosgiel.  I  heard  one  day  that  he  was 
very  ill,  and  I  drove  over  to  see  him.  His  daughter 
answered  the  door,  showed  me  in,  and  placed  a 
chair  for  me  beside  the  bed.  I  noticed,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bed,  another  chair.  It  stood  directly 
facing  the  pillow,  as  if  its  occupant  had  been  in 
earnest  conversation  with  the  patient. 

‘Ah,  Alec,’  I  exclaimed,  on  greeting  him,  ‘so  I’m 
not  your  first  visitor !’ 

He  looked  up  surprised,  and,  in  explanation,  I 
glanced  at  the  tell-tale  position  of  the  chair. 

‘Oh,’  he  said,  with  a  smile,  ‘I’ll  tell  ye  aboot  the 
chair  by-and-by ;  but  how  are  the  wife  and  the  weans 
and  the  kirk?’ 

I  found  that  he  was  far  too  ill,  however,  to  be 
wearied  by  general  conversation.  I  read  to  him  the 
Shepherd  Psalm;  I  led  him  to  the  Throne  of 
Grace ;  and  then  I  rose  to  go. 

‘Aboot  the  chair,’  he  said,  as  I  took  his  hand, 
‘it’s  like  this.  Years  ago  I  found  I  couldna  pray. 
I  fell  asleep  on  my  knees,  and,  even  if  I  kept  awake, 
my  thochts  were  aye  flittin’.  One  day,  when  I  was 
sair  worried  aboot  it,  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Clair  Mac- 


56 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


kenzie,  the  meenister  at  Broad  Point.  We  hadna 
a  meenister  o'  oor  ain  at  Mosgiel  then.  He  was  a 
guid  auld  man,  was  Mr.  Mackenzie.  And  he  telt 
me  not  to  fash  ma  heed  aboot  kneeling  down.  ^‘Jest 
sit  ye  down,"  he  said,  ‘"and  pit  a  chair  agen  ye  for 
the  Lord,  and  talk  to  Him  just  as  though  He  sat 
beside  ye !"  An'  I've  been  doin'  it  ever  since.  So 
now  ye  know  what  the  chair's  doin',  standing  the 
way  it  is !' 

I  pressed  his  hand  and  left  him.  A  week  later 
his  daughter  drove  up  to  the  manse.  I  knew  every¬ 
thing,  or  almost  everything,  as  soon  as  I  saw  her 
face. 

‘Father  died  in  the  night,'  she  sobbed.  ‘I  had 
no  idea  that  death  was  so  near,  and  I  had  just  gone 
to  lie  down  for  an  hour  or  two.  He  seemed  to  be 
sleeping  so  comfortably.  And,  when  I  went  back, 
he  was  gone !  He  didn't  seem  to  have  moved  since 
I  saw  him  last,  except  that  his  hand  was  out  on  the 
chair.  Do  you  understand?' 

I  understood. 


V 


LIVING  DOGS  AND  DEAD  LIONS 

I 

Mosgiel  was  in  the  throes  of  an  anniversary.  As 
part  of  the  programme,  John  Broadbanks  and  I 
were  exchanging  pulpits.  In  order  to  be  on  the 
spot  when  Sunday  arrived,  I  was  driven  over  to 
Silverstream  on  the  Saturday  evening.  When  I 
awoke  on  Sunday  morning,  and  looking  out  of  the 
Manse  window,  found  the  whole  plain  buried  deep 
in  snow,  I  was  glad  that  I  had  taken  this  precaution. 
At  breakfast  we  speculated  on  the  chances  of  my 
having  a  congregation.  Later  on,  however,  the 
buggies  began  to  arrive,  and  by  eleven  o’clock 
most  of  the  homesteads  were  represented.  But 
what  about  Sunday  school  in  the  afternoon?  I 
told  the  teachers  to  feel  under  no  obligation  to  come. 
‘I  shall  be  here,’  I  said,  ‘and  if  any  of  the  children 
put  in  an  appearance,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  look  after 
them.’  When  the  afternoon  came,  there  were  three 
scholars  present  —  Jack  Linacre,  who  had  ridden 
over  on  his  pony  from  a  farm  about  two  miles  away; 
Alec  Crosby,  a  High  School  boy,  who  lived  in  a 
large  house  just  across  the  fields;  and  little  Myrtle 
Broadbanks — Goldilocks,  as  we  called  her — ^who  had 


57 


58 


Rubble  and  Eoseleaves 


accompanied  me  from  the  Manse.  I  decided  to 
return  with  my  three  companions  to  the  Manse  and 
to  hold  our  Sunday  school  by  the  fireside. 

Well/  I  said,  as  soon  as  we  were  all  cosily  seated, 
‘I  was  reading  this  morning  in  the  Bible  about  a 
living  dog  and  a  dead  lion.  Which  would  you 
rather  be?’  There  was  a  pause.  Jack  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

‘Oh,  rd  rather  be  the  living  dog,’  he  blurted 
out ;  ‘it’s  better  to  be  alive  than  dead  any  day !’ 

‘Oh,  I  don’t  know!’  exclaimed  Alec.  Alec  was 
a  thoughtful  boy  who  had  already  carried  off  two 
or  three  scholarships.  He  had  been  weighing  the 
matter  carefully  while  Jack  was  giving  us  the 
benefit  of  his  first  impressions.  ‘I  don’t  know.  A 
dead  lion  has  been  a  living  lion,  while  the  living  dog 
will  be  a  dead  dog  some  day.  I  think  I’d  rather  be 
the  dead  lion.’ 

‘Well,  Goldilocks,’  I  said,  turning  to  the  little 
maiden  at  my  side,  ‘and  what  do  you  think  about 
it?’ 

‘Oh,’  she  said,  ‘I  think  I’d  like  a  little  of  both. 
I’d  like  to  be  a  lion  like  the  one  and  alive  like  the 
other  1’ 

This  all  happened  many  years  ago.  Jack  Linacre 
now  owns  the  farm  from  which  he  then  rode  over; 
Alec  Crosby  is  a  doctor  with  a  large  practice  in 
Sydney;  and  I  heard  of  Goldilocks’  wedding  only 
a  few  weeks  ago.  I  expect  they  have  forgotten  all 
about  the  snowy  afternoon  that  we  spent  by  the 


Living  Dogs  and  Dead  Lions 


59 


fireside  at  Silverstream ;  but  I  smile  still  as  I  recall 
the  answers  that  they  gave  to  the  question  that  I  set 
them. 

II 

There  is  something  to  be  said  for  Jack’s  way  of 
looking  at  things.  Our  love  of  life  is  our  master- 
passion.  It  animates  us  at  every  point.  It  is 
because  we  are  in  love  with  life  that  we  see  so  much 
beauty  in  the  dawning  of  a  new  day  and  find  so 
wealthy  a  romance  in  the  unfolding  of  the  Spring. 
We  feel  that,  among  the  myriad  mysteries  of  the 
universe,  there  is  no  mystery  so  elusive  and  so 
sublime  as  this  one.  A  living  moth  is  a  more  won¬ 
derful  affair  than  a  dead  moon.  Indeed,  we  only 
recognize  the  strength  of  the  hold  that  life  has  upon 
us  when  there  is  some  question  of  its  extinction. 
Let  a  man  stand  on  the  seashore,  and,  unable  to 
help,  watch  an  exhausted  swimmer  struggle  for  his 
life  in  the  seething  waters;  let  him  look  up  and 
follow  the  movements  of  a  steeplejack  as  he  climbs 
a  dizzy  spire ;  let  him  visit  a  circus  and  see  an  artist 
hazard  his  life  in  the  course  of  some  sensational 
performance ;  and,  for  the  moment,  he  will  find  his 
heart  in  his  mouth.  The  blood  will  forsake  his  face; 
he  will  be  filled  with  trepidation  and  palpitation ;  he 
can  scarcely  breathe!  And  why?  The  people  in 
peril  are  nothing  to  him.  For  him,  life  would  go  on 
in  just  the  same  way  whether  they  live  or  die.  Yet 
their  danger  fills  him  with  uncontrollable  excite- 


6o 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


ment!  Or  look,  if  you  will,  in  quite  another 
direction. 

I  was  in  a  tramcar  yesterday  afternoon.  In  the 
corner  opposite  was  a  lad — probably  an  errand-boy 
— curled  up  with  a  book.  His  sparkling  eyes  were 
glued  to  the  pages ;  his  face  was  flushed  with  excite¬ 
ment;  he  was  completely  lost  to  his  immediate  sur¬ 
roundings.  I  rose  to  leave  the  car.  The  movement 
evidently  aroused  him.  He  glanced  out  of  the 
window,  and  then,  with  a  start,  shut  the  book  and 
sprang  up  to  follow  me. 

‘Have  you  passed  your  proper  corner?’  I  asked 
when,  side  by  side,  we  reached  the  pavement. 

‘Yes,  sir,’  he  said,  ‘I  was  reading  the  book  and 
never  noticed.’ 

‘Exciting,  was  it?’  I  inquired,  reaching  out  my 
hand  for  the  volume.  On  the  cover  was  a  picture 
of  a  Red  Indian  galloping  across  the  prairie,  with  a 
white  girl  thrown  across  the  front  of  his  saddle. 

‘My  word,  it  was !’  he  replied.  ‘It’s  about  a  fellow 
who  was  flying  for  his  life  from  the  Indians  and 
took  refuge  in  a  cave.  And,  when  he  got  back  into 
the  dark  part  of  the  cave,  he  felt  something  warm 
and  then  heard  the  growl  of  a  bear.  My !  I  thought 
he  was  dead  that  time  1’ 

And  what  did  it  matter?  It  was  nothing  to 
this  errand-boy  whether  this  hero  of  his — a  mere 
frolic  of  an  author’s  fancy — ^lived  or  died.  And 
yet  the  life  or  death  of  that  hero  was  of  such 
moment  to  him  that,  for  the  time  being,  his  mind 


Living  Dogs  and  Dead  Lions  6i 

lost  its  hold  upon  realities  in  order  that  it  might 
concentrate  itself  upon  a  fight  among  shadows !  It 
is  our  intense,  our  persistent,  our  unquenchable  love 
of  life  that  explains  the  fascination  of  all  tales  of 
romance  and  adventure.  ‘With  man  as  with  the 
animals,’  says  Dr.  James  Martineau,  ‘death  is  the  evil 
from  which  he  himself  most  shrinks,  and  which  he 
most  deplores  for  those  he  loves;  it  is  the  utmost 
that  he  can  inflict  upon  his  enemy  and  the  maxi¬ 
mum  which  the  penal  justice  of  society  can  award 
to  its  criminals.  It  is  the  fear  of  death  which  gives 
their  vivid  interest  to  all  hairbreadth  escapes,  in 
the  shipwreck  or  amid  the  glaciers  or  in  the  fight; 
and  it  is  man’s  fear  of  death  that  supplies  the  chief 
tragic  element  in  all  his  art.’  When  we  find  our¬ 
selves  following  with  breathless  interest  the  move¬ 
ments  of  the  traveller,  the  hunter  or  the  explorer, 
we  fancy  that  our  emotion  arises  from  a  solicitude 
for  the  man  himself.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  arises 
from  nothing  of  the  kind.  It  arises  from  our  love 
of  life-for-its-own-sake. 

In  his  Lavengro,  George  Borrow  describes  an 
Open-air  service  which  he  attended  on  a  large  open 
moor.  The  preacher — a  tall,  thin  man  in  a  plain 
coat  and  with  a  calm,  serious  face — was  urging  his 
hearers  not  to  love  life  overmuch  and  to  prepare 
themselves  for  death.  ‘The  service  over,’  Borrow 
says,  ‘I  wandered  along  the  heath  till  I  came  to  a 
place  where,  beside  a  thick  furze,  sat  a  man,  his 
eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  red  ball  of  the  setting 


62 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


sun/  It  looked  like  his  old  comrade,  Jasper 
Petulengro,  the  gipsy. 

'Is  that  you,  Jasper?^ 

'Indeed,  brother!’  - 

'And  what,’  enquired  the  newcomer,  sitting  by 
the  gipsy’s  side,  'what  is  your  opinion  of  death, 
Jasper?’ 

'Life  is  sweet,  brother!’ 

'Do  you  think  so?’ 

'Think  so!  There’s  night  and  day,  brother,  both 
sweet  things ;  sun,  moon  and  stars,  brother,  all  sweet 
things;  there’s  likewise  a  wind  on  the  heath.  Life 
is  very  sweet,  brother;  who  would  wish  to  die?’ 

I  need  say  no  more  in  order  to  show  that  there 
is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  Jack  Linacre’s  way  of 
looking  at  things. 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive ! 

To  wake  each  morn  as  if  the  Maker’s  grace 

Did  us  afresh  from  nothingness  derive 
That  we  might  sing  ‘How  happy  is  our  case! 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive !’ 

From  Jack’s  point  of  view  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  one  living  dog  is  worth  all  the  dead  lions  that 
ever  were  or  will  be ! 


Ill 

Alec  Crosby,  however,  is  not  so  sure.  'A  dead 
lion,’  he  points  out,  'has  been  a  living  lion,  while 
the  living  dog  will  be  a  dead  dog  some  day.’  There 
is  something  in  that.  He  means,  if  I  rightly  catch 


Living  Dogs  and  Dead  Lions  63 

the  drift  of  his  philosophy,  that  you  can  pay  too 
much  for  the  privilege  of  being  alive.  Everything 
else  has  its  price,  and  most  of  us  buy  our  goods  on 
too  high  a  market.  One  man  pays  too  much  for 
popularity;  he  sells  his  conscience  for  it.  Another 
pays  too  much  for  fame;  it  costs  him  his  health. 
A  third  buys  his  money  too  dearly ;  in  gaining  the 
whole  world  he  loses  his  own  soul.  And  in  the 
same  way,  a  man  may  pay  too  much  even  for  life 
itself.  The  dog,  as  Alec  Crosby  probably  knew, 
is  usually  employed  in  Oriental  literature  as  an 
emblem  of  the  contemptible ;  the  dog  in  our  modern 
sense  —  Rover,  Carlo  and  the  rest  —  is  unknown. 
The  lion,  on  the  other  hand,  is  invariably  the  symbol 
of  the  courageous.  Alec  thinks  that,  all  things  con¬ 
sidered,  it  is  better  to  be  a  dead  hero  than  a  living 
coward.  Alec  reminds  me  of  Artemus  Ward.  On 
the  day  of  a  general  election,  Artemus  entered  a 
polling-booth  and  began  to  look  about  him  in  evi¬ 
dent  perplexity.  The  returning  officer  approached 
and  offered  to  help  him. 

‘For  whom  do  you  desire  to  vote?^  he  asked. 

‘I  want  to  vote  for  Flenry  Clay  replied  Artemus 
Ward. 

‘For  Henry  Clay!’  exclaimed  the  astounded 
.officer,  ‘why,  Henry  Clay  has  been  dead  for  years !’ 

‘Yes,  I  know,’  replied  Artemus  Ward,  ‘but  I’d 
rather  vote  for  Henry  Clay  dead  than  for  either  of 
these  men  living!’ 

Alec  Crosby  could  easily  call  a  great  host  of 


64 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


witnesses  to  support  his  view  of  the  matter.  Let 
me  summon  two — one  from  martyrology  and  one 
from  fiction. 

My  first  witness  shall  be  Thomas  Cranmer,  Arch¬ 
bishop  of  Canterbury.  For  his  fidelity  to  the  truth, 
Cranmer  was  sentenced  to  die  at  the  stake.  But 
every  day  during  his  imprisonment  he  was  oifered 
life  and  liberty  if  only  he  would  sign  the  deed  of 
recantation.  Every  morning  the  document  was 
spread  out  before  him  and  the  pen  placed  in  his 
hand.  Day  after  day,  he  resisted  the  terrible  temp¬ 
tation.  But,  as  Jasper  says,  life  is  very  sweet;  the 
craving  to  live  was  too  strong;  Cranmer  yielded. 
But,  as  soon  as  the  horror  of  a  cruel  death  had  been 
removed,  he  felt  that  he  had  bought  the  boon  of 
life  at  too  high  a  price.  The  death  with  which  he 
had  been  threatened  was  the  death  of  a  lion;  the 
life  that  he  was  living  was  the  life  of  a  dog!  He 
held  himself  in  contempt  and  abhorrence.  He 
cowered  before  the  faces  of  his  fellow  men!  Life 
on  such  terms  was  intolerable.  He  made  a  recan¬ 
tation  of  the  recantation.  As  a  token  of  his  remorse, 
he  burned  to  a  cinder  the  hand  with  which  he  signed 
the  cowardly  document.  And  then,  at  peace  with 
his  conscience,  he  embraced  a  fiery  death  with  a 
joyful  heart.  He  felt  that  it  was  a  thousand  times 
better  to  be  a  dead  lion  than  a  living  dog. 

My  witness  from  fiction  is  introduced  to  me  by 
Maxwell  Gray.  In  The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland, 
he  shows  that  life  may  be  bought  at  too  high  a 


Living  Dogs  and  Dead  Lions  65 

price.  Cyril  Maitland  had  committed  a  murder; 
yet  all  the  circumstances  pointed  to  the  guilt  of  his 
innocent  friend,  Henry  Everard.  Maitland  felt 
every  day  that  it  was  his  duty  to  confess;  but 
the  lure  of  life  was  too  strong  for  him ;  and,  besides, 
he  was  a  minister,  and  his  confession  would  bring 
shame  upon  his  sacred  office!  And  so  the  years 
went  by.  While  Everard  languished  in  jail,  having 
been  sentenced  to  twenty  years’  imprisonment, 
Maitland  advanced  in  popularity  and  won  swift  pre¬ 
ferment.  He  became  a  dean.  But  his  life  was  a 
torture  to  him.  He  felt  that  death — even  the  death 
that  he  had  dreaded — would  have  been  infinitely 
preferable.  And,  after  suffering  agonies  such  as 
Everard  in  prison  never  knew,  he  at  last  made  a 
clean  breast  of  his  guilt  and  laid  down  the  life  for 
which  he  had  paid  too  much.  Thomas  Cranmer  and 
Dean  Maitland  would  both  take  sides  with  Alec 
Crosby. 

IV 

But  it  was  Goldilocks  that,  on  that  snowy  after¬ 
noon  at  Silverstream,  hit  the  nail  on  the  head. 

T  think  Ed  like  a  little  of  both,’  she  said.  T’d 
like  to  be  a  lion  like  the  one  and  alive  like  the  other !’ 

Precisely !  With  her  feminine  facility  for  putting 
her  finger  on  the  very  heart  of  things.  Goldilocks  has 
brushed  away  all  irrelevancies  and  got  to  bedrock. 
For,  after  all,  the  question  of  life  and  death  does 
not  really  concern  us.  A  dog,  living  or  dead,  can 


66 


Rubble  and  Eoseleaves 


be  nothing  other  than  a  dog;  a  lion,  living  or  dead, 
can  be  nothing  other  than  a  lion.  The  dead  lion, 
as  Alec  Crosby  says,  was  a  living  lion  once;  the 
living  dog  will  be  a  dead  dog  some  day.  Goldilocks 
helps  us  to  clear  the  issue.  The  real  alternative  is 
not  between  life  and  death;  for  life  and  death  come 
in  turn  to  dog  and  lion  alike.  The  real  question 
is  between  the  canine  and  the  leonine.  Shall  I  live 
contemptibly  or  shall  I  live  courageously? 

‘And  I  looked,’  says  the  last  of  the  Biblical  writ¬ 
ers,  ‘and  behold,  a  lion — the  Lion  of  the  tribe  of 
Juda!^ 

Like  a  lion  He  lived !  With  the  courage  of  a  lion 
He  died!  And  in  leonine  splendor  He  moves 
through  all  the  worlds  above.  Goldilocks  had  evi¬ 
dently  made  up  her  mind,  in  life  and  in  death,  to 
model  her  character  and  experience  upon  His ! 


VI 


NEW  BROOMS 

New  brooms,  they  say,  sweep  clean.  The  state¬ 
ment  is  scarcely  worth  challenging.  It  is  ridiculous 
upon  the  face  of  it.  How  can  new  brooms  sweep 
clean?  New  brooms  do  not  sweep  at  all.  If  they 
sweep,  they  are  not  new  brooms  :  they  have  been 
used;  the  dealer  will  not  receive  them  back  into 
stock;  they  are  obviously  second-hand.  But  I  need 
not  stress  that  point.  My  antagonism  to  the  ancient 
saw  rests  on  other  grounds. 

New  brooms,  they  say,  sweep  clean.  It  is  invari¬ 
ably  a  cynic  who  says  it.  He  seizes  the  proverb 
as  he  would  seize  a  bludgeon ;  and,  with  it,  he  makes 
a  murderous  attack  on  the  first  young  enthusiast  he 
happens  to  meet.  It  is  a  barbarous  weapon,  and  can 
be  wielded  by  an  expert  with  deadly  effects.  It  is 
a  thousand  times  worse  than  a  shillalah,  a  toma¬ 
hawk,  a  baton,  or  a  club;  with  either  of  these  a 
man  can  break  your  head ;  but  with  the  saying  about 
the  new  broom  he  can  break  your  heart.  I  well 
remember  the  public  meeting  at  which  I  was  form¬ 
ally  welcomed  to  Mosgiel.  Among  the  speakers 
was  an  old  minister  of  the  severely  conservative 
type,  with  whom  I  subsequently  grew  very  intimate. 

67 


68 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


But  at  that  stage,  as  he  himself  told  me  afterwards, 
he  deeply  resented  my  coming.  He  regarded  it  as 
an  intrusion.  He  said,  in  the  course  of  his  speech, 
that  he  confidently  expected  to  hear,  during  the 
next  few  months,  the  most  glowing  accounts  of  the 
work  at  the  Mosgiel  Church.  That,  he  cruelly 
observed,  was  the  usual  thing.  A  young  minister's 
first  year  among  his  people  is,  he  remarked,  a  year  of 
admiration;  the  second  is  a  year  of  toleration; 
and  the  third,  a  year  of  abomination.  New  brooms, 
he  said,  sweep  clean.  The  jest,  I  dare  say,  rolled 
from  the  memories  of  the  people  like  water  from 
a  duck's  back.  I  doubt  if  they  gave  it  a  second 
thought.  They  probably  remarked  to  one  another 
as  they  drove  back  to  their  farms  that  the  old 
gentleman  was  in  a  droll  humor.  But,  to  me,  his 
words  were  like  the  thrust  of  a  sword;  he  stabbed 
me  to  the  quick.  There  was  never  a  day  during 
those  first  three  years  at  Mosgiel,  but  the  wound 
ached  and  smarted.  Long  afterwards,  I  reminded 
the  old  gentleman  of  his  jest;  and  he  most  solemnly 
assured  me  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  recollection 
of  ever  having  uttered  it.  Which  only  proves  that 
our  thoughtless  thrusts  are  often  just  as  painful  as 
our  malicious  ones.  I  have  long  since  forgiven 
my  old  friend.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  that  I  have 
much  to  forgive.  For,  after  all,  his  stinging  jibe 
only  made  me  resolve  to  prove  its  falsity.  For  more 
than  a  thousand  mornings  I  rose  from  my  bed  vow¬ 
ing  that  at  the  end  of  three  years,  and  at  the  end 


New  Brooms 


69 


\ 

of  thirty,  the  broom  should  be  sweeping  as  cleanly 
as  ever.  The  old  minister  has  been  in  his  grave 
for  many  years  now ;  and  I  have  nothing  but  bene¬ 
dictions  to  heap  upon  his  honored  name. 

The  cult  of  the  new  broom  is  a  most  pernicious 
one.  No  heresy  has  done  more  harm.  The 
woman  who  really  believes  that  new  brooms  sweep 
clean  will  endeavor  to  keep  the  broom  new  as  long  as 
she  possibly  can.  And  that  is  not  what  brooms  are 
for.  Brooms  are  to  use ;  and,  as  soon  as  you  begin 
to  use  them,  they  cease  to  be  new  brooms.  The 
point  is  a  vital  one.  About  three  hundred  years  ago, 
one  of  the  choicest  spirits  in  English  history  was 
passing  away.  George  Macdonald  says  of  him  that 
one  of  the  keenest  delights  of  the  life  to  come  will 
be  the  joy  of  seeing  the  face  of  George  Herbert 
‘with  whom  to  talk  humbly  will  be  in  bliss  a  higher 
bliss.’  As  George  Herbert  lay  dying,  he  drew  from 
beneath  his  pillow  the  roll  of  manuscripts  that  con¬ 
tained  the  poems  that  are  now  so  famous.  ‘Deliver 
this,’  he  said,  ‘to  my  dear  brother,  Nicholas  Ferrar, 
and  tell  him  that  he  will  find  in  it  a  picture  of  the 
many  spiritual  conflicts  that  passed  between  God 
and  my  soul  before  I  could  subject  my  will  to  the 
will  of  Jesus  my  Master.’  The  verses  were  pub¬ 
lished,  and  have  come  to  be  esteemed  as  one  of  the 
priceless  possessions  of  the  Church  universal.  And 
among  them,  strangely  enough,  I  find  a  striking 
reference  to  this  matter  of  new  brooms.  ‘What 
wretchedness,’  George  Herbert  asks. 


70 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


‘What  wretchedness  can  give  him  any  room 
Whose  house  is  foul  while  he  adores  the  broom?’ 

And  here  is  George  Herbert  telling  us  on  his  death¬ 
bed  that  this  reflects  some  deep  spiritual  conflict 
between  God  and  his  own  soul !  What  can  he  mean  ? 
He  means,  of  course,  that  it  is  possible  to  be  so  much 
in  love  with  your  new  dress  that  you  are  afraid  to 
wear  it.  You  may  be  so  enamored  of  your  new 
spade  that  you  shrink  from  soiling  it.  You  may — 
to  return  to  the  poet’s  imagery — so  adore  your  new 
broom  that  you  allow  all  your  floors  to  become 
dusty  and  foul. 

And  herein  lies  one  of  life’s  cardinal  sins.  In  his 
lecture  on  The  Valley  of  Diamonds,  John  Ruskin 
discusses  the  nature  of  covetousness.  What  is 
covetousness?  Wherein  does  it  differ  from  the 
legitimate  desire  for  wealth?  Up  to  a  certain  point 
the  desire  for  riches  is  admirable.  It  develops  intel¬ 
lectual  alertness  in  the  individual,  and,  in  the 
aggregate,  builds  up  our  national  prosperity.  If 
nobody  wished  to  be  rich,  the  resources  of  the 
country  would  never  be  exploited.  Why  should 
men  trouble  to  clear  the  bush  or  sink  mines  or  erect 
factories  or  cultivate  farms?  Apart  from  the  lure 
of  wealth  we  should  be  a  people  of  sluggish  wit  and 
savage  habits.  Viewed  in  this  light,  the  desire  for 
wealth  is  not  only  pardonable ;  it  is  admirable. 
At  what  point  does  it  curdle  into  covetousness  and 
threaten  our  undoing?  Ruskin  draws  the  line 


New  Brooms 


71 


sharply.  The  desire  for  wealth  is  good,  he  argues, 
as  long  as  we  have  some  use  for  the  riches  that  we 
acquire;  it  deteriorates  into  mere  covetousness  as 
soon  as  we  crave  to  possess  it  for  the  sheer  sake  of 
possessing  it  and  apart  from  any  use  to  which  we 
propose  to  put  it.  ‘Fix  your  desire  on  anything 
useless,’  he  says,  ‘and  all  the  pride  and  folly  of  your 
heart  will  mix  with  that  desire ;  and  you  will  become 
at  last  wholly  inhuman,  a  mere,  ugly  lump  of 
stomach  and  suckers,  like  a  cuttlefish.’  John 
Ruskin’s  vigorous  prose  throws  a  flood  of  light  on 
George  Herbert’s  cryptic  poetry.  So  far  as  I  have 
it  in  my  heart  to  use  my  new  broom  for  the  cleansing 
of  my  home  and  the  comfort  of  my  fellows,  my  new 
broom  may  be  a  means  of  grace  to  me  and  them; 
but,  so  far  as  I  view  the  new  broom  merely  as  a 
possession,  and  irrespective  of  the  service  in  which 
it  should  be  worn  out,  my  pride  in  it  is  bad  as  bad 
can  be. 

John  Ruskin  reminds  me  of  Le  Sage.  ‘Before 
reading  the  story  of  my  life,’  he  makes  Gil  Bias  to 
say,  ‘listen  to  a  tale  I  am  about  to  tell  thee!’  And 
then  he  tells  of  the  two  tired  and  thirsty  students 
who,  travelling  together  from  Pennafiel  to  Sala¬ 
manca,  sat  down  by  a  roadside  spring.  Near  the 
spring  they  noticed  a  flat  stone,  and  on  the  stone 
they  soon  detected  some  letters.  The  inscription 
was  almost  effaced,  partly  by  the  teeth  of  time  and 
partly  by  the  feet  of  the  flocks  that  came  to  water 
at  the  fountain.  But,  after  washing  it  well,  they 


72 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


were  able  to  make  out  the  words  'Here  is  interred 
the  soul  of  the  Licentiate  Peter  Garcias/  The  first 
of  the  students  roared  with  laughter  and  treated  the 
affair  as  purely  a  joke.  ‘Here  lies  a  soul!' — what 
an  idea !  A  soul  under  a  stone !  The  second,  how¬ 
ever,  took  it  more  seriously  and  began  to  dig.  He 
at  length  came  upon  a  leather  purse  containing  a 
hundred  ducats,  and  a  card,  on  which  was  written 
in  Latin  the  following  sentence:  'Thou  who  hast 
had  wit  enough  to  discover  the  meaning  of  the 
inscription,  inherit  my  money,  and  make  a  better 
use  of  it  than  1  have!' 

‘The  soul  of  the  Licentiate  Peter  Garcias !’ 

‘Make  a  better  use  of  it  than  I  have !’ 

Poor  Peter  Garcias  felt  that  his  shining  ducats 
had  been  a  curse  and  not  a  blessing,  because  he 
had  loved  them  for  their  own  sake  instead  of  for 
the  sake  of  the  use  to  which  they  could  be  put. 
‘Make  a  better  use  of  them  than  I  have!^  he 
implored.  Peter  Garcias  would  have  understood 
exactly  what  George  Herbert  meant  by  the  worship 
of  the  new  broom. 

But  I  need  not  have  gone  abroad  for  my  illus¬ 
tration.  It  is  a  far  cry  from  George  Herbert  to 
George  Eliot;  yet  George  Eliot  has  furnished  us 
with  the  most  telling  exposition  of  George  Herbert's 
recondite  remark.  For  George  Eliot  has  given  us 
Silas  Marner.  Indeed,  she  has  given  us  two  Silas 
Marners.  We  have  Silas  Marner  the  miser,  gloating 
greedily  over  the  guineas  that  he  afterwards  lost; 


New  Brooms 


73 


and,  later  on,  we  have  Silas  Marner,  strong,  unself¬ 
ish,  tender-hearted,  rejoicing  in  the  wealth  that  he 
has  now  regained.  Let  us  glance,  first  at  the  one 
and  then  at  the  other. 

We  peep  at  him  as  he  appears  in  the  second 
chapter.  ‘So,  year  after  year,  Silas  Mamer  had 
lived  in  this  solitude,  his  guineas  rising  in  the  iron 
pot,  and  his  life  narrowing  and  hardening  itself 
more  and  more  into  a  mere  pulsation  of  desire  and 
satisfaction  that  had  no  relation  to  any  other  being. 
His  life  had  reduced  itself  to  the  functions  of 
weaving  and  hoarding,  without  any  contemplation 
of  an  end  towards  which  the  functions  tended. 
Marner^s  face  shrank;  his  eyes  that  used  to  look 
trusting  and  dreamy  now  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  made  to  see  only  one  kind  of  thing  for  which 
they  hunted  everywhere;  and  he  was  so  withered 
and  yellow  that,  although  he  was  not  yet  forty, 
the  children  always  called  him  “Old  Master 
Marner.”  ' 

This  was  Silas  Marner  the  miser !  Then  followed 
the  loss  of  the  money;  the  hoarded  guineas  were 
all  stolen,  and  Silas  was  like  a  man  demented! 
Then  little  Eppie  stole  into  his  home  and  heart. 
When  he  saw  her  for  the  first  time,  curled  up  on 
the  hearth,  the  flickering  firelight  playing  on  her 
riot  of  golden  hair,  he  thought  his  long-lost  guineas 
had  come  back  in  this  new  form,  and  he  loved  her 
as  he  had  once  loved  them.  He  would  take  her 
on  his  knee  and  tell  her  wonderful  stories,  and, 


74 


Bubble  and  Roseleaves 


in  the  long  summer  evenings,  would  stroll  out  into 
the  meadows,  thick  with  buttercups,  and  would 
make  garlands  for  her  hair  and  teach  her  to  distin¬ 
guish  the  songs  of  the  birds.  And  so  the  years  go 
by  till  Eppie  is  a  bonny  girl  of  eighteen — always  in 
trouble  about  her  golden  hair,  for  no  other  girl  of 
her  acquaintance  has  hair  like  it,  and,  smooth  it  as 
she  may,  it  will  not  be  hidden  under  her  pretty 
brown  bonnet.  And  then  comes  the  great  discovery. 
The  pond  in  the  Stone  Pit  runs  dry,  and  in  its  slimy 
bed  are  found  the  skeleton  of  the  thief  and — the 
long-lost  guineas!  That  evening  Silas  and  Eppie 
sit  together  in  the  cottage.  George  Eliot  describes 
the  transfiguration  which  his  love  for  Eppie  had 
effected  in  the  countenance  of  Silas.  ‘She  drew 
her  chair  towards  his  knees,  and  leaned  forward, 
holding  both  his  hands,  while  she  looked  up  at 
him.'  On  the  table  near  them,  lit  by  a  candle,  lay 
the  recovered  gold — ^the  old  long-loved  gold,  ranged 
in  orderly  heaps,  as  Silas  used  to  range  it  in  the  days 
when  it  was  his  only  joy.  He  had  been  telling  her 
how  he  used  to  count  it  every  night,  and  how  his 
soul  was  utterly  desolate  till  she  was  sent  to  him. 

‘Eh,  my  precious  child,'  he  cried,  ‘if  you  hadn't 
been  sent  to  save  me,  I  should  ha'  gone  to  the 
grave  in  my  misery.  The  money  was  taken  away 
from  me  in  time;  and  you  see  it's  been  kept — kept 
till  it  was  wanted  for  you.  It's  wonderful — our  life 
is  wonderful !' 

It  is  indeed!  But  the  wonderful  thing  for  us 


New  Brooms 


75 


at  this  moment  is  the  contrast  between  these  two 
Silas  Marners.  They  are  both  rich.  But  the  first 
is  rich  and  wretched;  the  second  is  rich  and  happy. 
And  the  secret!  The  secret  is  that,  in  his  first 
possession  of  the  guineas,  he  loved  them  for  their 
own  sake,  irrespective  of  any  use  to  which  they 
could  be  put;  in  his  subsequent  possession  of  the 
self-same  guineas  he  loved  them  for  the  sake  of  the 
happiness  that  they  could  purchase  for  Eppie. 

The  first  Silas  Marner  knew  the  wretchedness 
that  George  Herbert  describes — the  wretchedness 
of  the  man  ‘whose  house  is  foul  while  he  adores 
his  broom’;  the  second  Silas  Marner  was  willing 
that  the  broom  should  be  worn  out  in  sweeping  all 
the  obstacles  and  difficulties  out  of  Eppie’s  path. 

In  telling  her  story,  George  Eliot  remarks  inci¬ 
dentally  that  wiser  men  than  Silas  Marner  often 
repeat  his  mistake.  The  only  difference  is  that, 
while  Silas  Marner  amassed  money  without  con¬ 
sidering  the  uses  to  which  it  could  be  put,  these 
wiser  misers  accumulate  knowledge  in  the  same 
aimless  way.  They  abandon  themselves  to  some 
erudite  research,  some  ingenious  project  or  some 
well-knit  theory;  and  it  brings  them  little  joy  because 
it  stands  related  to  no  actual  need.  It  is  a  new 
broom  and  will  remain  a  new  broom;  it  will  never 
brush  away  any  of  the  world’s  sorrows  or  sweep 
together  any  of  its  long-lost  treasures.  Knowledge, 
like  money,  is  a  noble  thing.  But,  as  with  money, 
so  with  knowledge,  it  derives  its  nobleness  from  the 


76 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


ends  which  it  is  designed  to  compass.  Every 
nation  has  a  right  to  rejoice  in  its  universities. 
The  university  is  the  glory  of  civilization.  But, 
unless  we  keep  both  eyes  wide  open,  the  university 
may  come  to  resemble  the  hole  in  the  cottage 
floor  in  which  Silas  Marner  hoarded  his  gold.  Let 
the  student  of  engineering  remember  that  he  is 
accumulating  knowledge,  not  that  he  may  possess 
more  of  it  than  his  rivals  and  competitors,  but  that 
he  may  do  more  than  they  towards  surmounting 
the  obstacles  that  block  the  path  of  human  progress. 
Let  the  medical  student  remember  that  he  is  amass¬ 
ing  knowledge,  not  that  he  may  flourish  the 
academic  distinctions  he  has  won,  but  that  he  may 
lessen  the  sum  of  human  anguish  and  save  human 
life.  And  let  the  theological  student  reflect  that 
he  is  winning  for  himself  a  scholarly  renown,  not 
that  he  may  rejoice  in  his  attainments  and  distinc¬ 
tions  for  their  own  sake,  but  that,  by  means  of  them, 
he  may  the  more  effectively  and  skillfully  lead  all 
kinds  and  conditions  of  men  into  the  kingdom  and 
service  of  his  Lord. 

And  so  I  come  back  to  my  starting-point.  The 
broom  that  sweeps  clean  is  not  a  new  broom.  After 
commencing  this  chapter  I  happened  to  pick  up  a 
report  of  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society. 
On  one  of  its  pages  I  find  a  story  told  by  the  society’s 
colporteur  at  Port  Said.  He  boarded  an  incoming 
steamer,  and,  on  the  lower  deck,  found  a  German 
sailor  sweeping  out  a  cabin.  The  man  was  greatly 


New  Brooms 


77 


depressed.  In  the  course  of  conversation,  each 
claimed  to  be  a  greater  sinner  than  the  other. 

‘What!^  exclaimed  the  sailor,  Vhy,  you  are  the 
first  man  to  tell  me  that  he  is  a  greater  sinner  than 
I  am !" 

He  took  a  Gospel  from  the  colporteur’s  hands  and 
began  to  read. 

‘Ah,’  he  sighed,  ‘that  I  were  a  little  child  again 
and  could  read  it  with  a  clean  heart !’ 

The  remark  was  overheard  by  some  of  his  ship¬ 
mates. 

‘Is  that  you,  Jansen?’  they  asked;  ‘what  wonder 
has  happened  to  you  ?’ 

‘No  wonder  at  all,’  the  man  replied.  want  to 
sweep  out  my  heart ,  and  I  am  buying  a  broom!* 

The  broom  that  he  bought  is  by  no  means  a  new 
one,  but  it  sweeps  wonderfully  clean  for  all  that! 


VII 


A  GOOD  WIFE  AND  A  GALLANT  SHIP 

I 

Why  is  a  good  wife  like  a  gallant  ship?  This  is 
not  a  riddle;  it  is  a  sincere  and  earnest  inquiry. 
An  ancient  philosopher  in  the  East  and  a  modern 
poet  in  the  West  have  both  remarked  upon  the 
resemblance  between  the  two.  Solomon  spent  nearly 
half  his  life  thinking  about  ships.  He  was  the 
only  Jewish  king  who  felt  much  enthusiasm  for 
maritime  affairs.  Solomon  reminds  me  of  Peter  the 
Great.  Those  who  have  perused  Waliszewski’s 
biography  of  that  monarch  are  scarcely  likely  to 
forget  the  passage  in  which  the  historian  describes 
the  finding,  by  the  boy  Peter,  of  the  broken  boat. 
It  was  only  an  old,  half-rotten  wooden  skiff,  thrown 
to  the  scrap-heap  with  some  useless  lumber  in  the 
little  village  of  Ismailof;  but,  captivating  the  boy^s 
fancy,  and  stirring  his  imagination,  he  could  not 
take  his  eyes  from  it.  It  changed  the  whole  current 
of  his  life.  He  is  destined  to  rule  over  a  great  con¬ 
tinental  people  who  have  no  access  to  the  sea.  Yet, 
from  that  day,  he  dreams  of  nothing  but  brave  ships 
and  romantic  voyages.  He  comes  to  England  to 
learn  shipbuilding.  He  returns  to  Russia  and  builds 
useless  navies.  He  claps  his  hands  in  delirious 

78 


A  Good  Wife  and  a  Gallant  Ship 


79 


ecstasy  as  he  launches  his  huge  toys  on  his  inland 
lakes.  He  is  like  a  caged  eagle;  the  passion  of  the 
infinite  throbs  in  his  veins,  yet  he  is  cribbed,  cabined, 
and  confined  in  this  cruel  way ! 

Solomon  was  in  a  very  similar  case.  He  ruled 
over  a  people  who  regarded  the  sea  with  distrust 
and  disdain.  Yet  he  himself  heard  in  his  soul  the 
challenging  call  of  the  mighty  waters.  The  ships! 
The  ships  that  bring  the  food  1  The  merchant 
ships  I  The  ships  that  lie  becalmed  in  the  oily  seas 
of  the  tropics ;  the  ships  that  get  caught  in  the  ice¬ 
pack  at  the  poles;  the  ships  that  fight  their  way 
doggedly  through  howling  gales  and  icy  blizzards 
round  the  cape!  Those  stately  ships,  with  their 
dizzy  masts  and  shapely  bows,  captivated  his 
imagination;  and  when  he  desired  to  speak  of  the 
virtuous  and  faithful  housewife  in  terms  of  super¬ 
lative  appreciation,  the  only  image  that  seemed 
worthy  of  her  was  the  gallant  ship  riding  at  anchor 
in  the  bay.  'Who  can  find  a  virtuous  woman?* 
he  asks,  'for  her  price  is  far  above  rubies.  She  is 
like  the  merchant  ships;  she  bringeth  her  food  from 
afar.* 

II 

So  much  for  the  Eastern  philosopher;  now  for 
the  Western  bard !  Longfellow  likens  a  good  wife 
to  a  gallant  ship;  and,  in  order  that  we  may  see 
how  much  alike  the  two  are,  he  places  them  side  by 
side.  He  describes  the  old  shipbuilder  who  has 


8o 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


resolved  to  build  one  more  ship,  his  last  and  his 
best.  He  comes  down  to  the  yards,  his  eyes  spark¬ 
ling  with  enthusiasm,  carrying  the  model  in  his 
hand.  He  approaches  his  assistant,  shows  him 
the  model,  and  confides  to  him  his  dream.  The 
younger  man,  a  stalwart  and  fiery  youth,  has  a 
dream  of  his  own.  He  aspires  to  marry  his  master's 
daughter.  The  two  are  engrossed  in  conversation, 
the  elder  man  depicting  to  the  younger  the  stately 
ship  that  is  to  be.  He  will  build  a  vessel  that  shall 
laugh  at  all  disaster,  and  with  wave  and  whirlwind 
wrestle.  And  he  concludes  his  eager  communication 
by  promising  that  fihe  day  that  giveth  her  to  the 
sea  shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee.'  The  younger 
man  starts  at  the  radiant  prospect. 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of  pride. 

Standing  before  her  father’s  door 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair 

With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 

Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she - 

And  so  on.  All  through  the  poem,  right  up  to  the 
wedding  on  the  ship's  deck  on  the  day  of  her  launch¬ 
ing,  Longfellow  draws  the  analogy  between  the 
shapely  vessel,  the  bride  of  the  ocean,  and  the  fair 
maiden,  the  bride  of  the  proud  young  builder. 

*She  is  like  the  merchant  ships says  the  ancient 
Eastern  sage. 


A  Good  Wife  and  a  Gallant  Ship  8i 

*Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she!^  exclaims  the 
Western  poet. 

It  is  difficult  to  resist  the  testimony  of  two  such 
witnesses. 

Ill 

Neither  the  good  wife  nor  the  gallant  ship  need 
resent  the  analogy.  If  the  good  wife  does  not  like 
being  compared  to  a  ship,  let  her  sit  down  for  five 
minutes  and  think,  and  it  will  occur  to  her  that, 
of  all  our  ingenious  inventions  and  bewildering  con¬ 
trivances,  a  ship  is  the  only  one  that  has  a  divine 
origin  and  a  divine  authority.  The  ark  was  the 
first  ship;  and  its  plans  and  specifications  were 
divinely  dictated.  Moreover,  it  is  obvious  that, 
since  the  Lord  God  divided  His  world  into  islands 
and  continents,  with  vast  expanses  of  ocean  rolling 
between,  and  commanded  that  all  those  scattered 
territories  should  be  peopled  and  developed.  He 
contemplated  the  existence  of  the  ships.  The  ships 
were  part  of  the  original  programme.  The  ships 
were  to  be  the  instruments  of  those  distributive  and 
mediative  ministries  on  which  the  history  of  the 
world  was  to  be  based. 

Or,  if  instead  of  thinking  abstract  thoughts,  the 
good  wife  prefers  to  read,  let  her  reach  down 
Rudyard  Kipling’s  ballad  of  the  Big  Steamers, 

‘Oh,  where  are  you  going  to,  all  you  Big  Steamers, 

With  England’s  own  coal,  up  and  down  the  salt  seas?’ 
‘We  are  going  to  fetch  you  your  bread  and  your  butter. 
Your  beef,  pork,  and  mutton,  eggs,  apples,  and  cheese, 


82 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


For  the  bread  that  you  eat,  and  the  biscuits  you  nibble, 

The  sweets  that  you  suck  and  the  joints  that  you  carve, 
They  are  brought  to  you  daily  by  all  us  Big  Steamers, 

And  if  anyone  hinders  our  coming  you’ll  starve!’ 

The  ships,  then,  represent  the  indispensabilities  of 
life,  the  things  without  which  we  cannot  live.  I  am 
writing  here  in  Australia.  And  even  here  in  Austra¬ 
lia,  with  our  immense  open  spaces,  spaces  in  which 
we  can  grow  almost  anything,  how  dependent  we  are 
upon  the  coming  of  the  ships!  We  need  the  ships; 
ships  to  bring  us  our  supplies  from  the  great  looms 
and  factories  of  the  old  world;  ships  to  take  the 
produce  of  our  boundless  plains  to  the  congested 
populations  of  the  other  hemisphere ;  ships  to  bring 
the  letters  for  which  our  hearts  are  hungry,  and  to 
take  the  letters  for  which  distant  friends  are  wait¬ 
ing.  Even  here  in  Australia  the  ships  are  the  light 
of  our  eyes  and  the  breath  of  our  nostrils.  Even 
here  in  Australia,  the  good  wife,  when  she  spreads 
her  table  in  the  morning,  brings  her  food  from  afar. 
For  none  of  these  dainties  that  tempt  my  appetite 
and  nourish  my  frame  are  native  foods.  They  were 
not  here  until  the  ships  began  to  come.  The  wheat 
is  not  indigenous ;  the  meat  is  not  native  meat.  The 
corn  and  the  cattle  and  the  coffee  came  to  Austra¬ 
lia  on  the  ships.  And,  but  for  the  ships,  we  our¬ 
selves  could  never  have  been  here.  Let  a  man 
register  a  vow  that  he  will  not  eat,  drink,  wear  or 
use  anything  that  has — in  a  remote  or  in  an  im¬ 
mediate  sense — been  upon  a  ship;  and  he  will  be 


A  Good  Wife  and  a  Gallant  Ship 


83 


reduced  to  abject  wretchedness  in  no  time.  God 
has  built  His  world  in  such  a  way  that  the  ship  is 
the  foundation  of  everything. 

Each  climate  needs  what  other  climes  produce, 

And  offers  something  to  the  general  use ; 

No  land  but  listens  to  the  common  call, 

And,  in  return,  receives  supplies  from  all. 

The  Great  Weaver  stands  continually  at  His  loom 
working  out  an  intricate  and  beautiful  pattern.  The 
nations  are  the  threads  that  run  up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  not  far  apart,  yet  never  meeting.  The 
gallant  ship  is  the  shuttle,  the  busy  shuttle,  that  flies 
to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  weaving  them  all  into  one 
compact  and  wonderful  whole.  The  web  depends 
entirely  on  the  shuttle;  the  world  depends  entirely 
on  the  ships. 

IV 

I  never  see  a  great  ship  come  into  port  at  the  end 
of  a  long  voyage  without  feeling  a  sense  of  admira¬ 
tion,  amounting  almost  to  awe,  at  the  masterly 
achievement.  To  say  nothing  of  the  perils  to  which 
she  has  been  exposed  at  sea,  it  seems  an  amazing 
thing  that,  after  having  been  for  months  on  the 
trackless  waters,  she  can  pick  up  the  heads  as  easily 
as  though  she  had  been  following  a  well-blazed  trail. 
There  is  a  famous  story  on  record  in  the  Memoirs  of 
Captain  Basil  Hall.  It  tells  how  the  erudite  com¬ 
mander  once  brought  his  vessel  round  Cape  Horn  on 


84 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


a  voyage  from  San  Bias  to  Rio  de  Janeiro.  Without 
any  other  observations  than  those  of  the  sun  and 
moon,  he  laid  his  vessel,  in  a  thick  fog,  outside  what 
he  believed  to  be  the  entrance  to  the  harbor.  The 
fog  cleared,  and  the  land  slowly  loomed  up  through 
it — the  first  that  had  been  seen  for  more  than  three 
months.  It  was  Rio!  The  sailors  were  electrified 
at  the  accuracy  of  their  commander^s  calculations, 
and,  rushing  to  the  bridge,  greeted  him,  by  way  of 
congratulation,  with  three  ringing  cheers!  I  sup¬ 
pose  no  man  ever  watched  a  brave  ship  drop  anchor 
in  the  bay  at  the  end  of  her  voyage  without  some 
such  feeling  as  this.  And  certainly  no  man  ever 
looked  into  the  face  of  his  bride  on  his  wedding  day 
without  being  conscious  of  ,some  such  emotion. 
*She  is  like  the  merchant  ship;  she  hringeth  her  food 
from  afar/  It  seems  so  wonderful  to  the  bride¬ 
groom  that  she  should  have  reached  his  side  in 
safety.  The  chances  against  her  safe  arrival  were 
a  million  to  one.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a  thousand 
generations.  For  countless  centuries  her  ancestors 
were  fighting  men.  If,  in  that  long  chain  of  warring 
progenitors,  only  one  had  fallen  before  he  mated, 
she  could  never  have  been  born.  Time  after  time, 
in  those  rude  days,  the  earth  was  desolated  by  war, 
pestilence,  and  famine;  yet  the  line  of  genealogy 
that  led  to  her  remained  unbroken!  More  than 
once  whole  nations  were  depopulated  by  the  plague. 
But  still  her  ancestry  was  unaffected.  The  prov¬ 
idence  that  guards  the  good  ship  on  the  seething 


A  Good  Wife  and  a  Gallant  Ship  85 

waters,  bringing  it  safely  through  storm  and  tempest 
to  its  desired  haven,  watched  over  her  as  she  floated 
down  the  restless  ages  to  her  husband’s  side.  She 
was  like  the  ark,  upborne  by  the  very  waters  that 
destroyed  everything  beside;  or,  to  return  to  Solo¬ 
mon’s  simile,  ‘she  is  like  the  merchant  ships;  she 
hringeth  her  food  from  afar/  Her  safe  arrival 
seems  a  miracle,  and  a  golden  miracle  at  that.  It 
seems  to  her  husband  that,  threatened  by  such  perils 
as  she  has  braved,  only  an  escort  of  angels  could 
have  brought  her  safely  to  his  side.  And  he  bows 
his  head  in  wondering  gratitude. 

V 

We  owe  everything  to  the  ships.  All  our  food 
comes  from  afar.  Yes,  all  of  it,  including  food  for 
thought.  The  school,  the  college,  the  university; 
they  all  resemble  the  virtuous  housewife  spreading 
her  table.  They  bring  food  from  afar.  Only  this 
afternoon  I  was  shown  over  Bennington  College. 
The  Principal,  Miss  Gertrude  Milman,  B.A.,  took 
me  into  a  class-room  in  which  a  geography  lesson 
was  in  progress.  The  teacher  was  giving  her  pupils 
food  from  afar.  Hardy  adventurers  and  patient 
explorers  sailed  across  unknown  seas,  charted  un¬ 
known  lands,  and  returned  with  the  priceless  results 
of  their  hazardous  investigations.  And  those  re¬ 
sults,  brought  home  by  the  ships,  were  being  dis¬ 
pensed  in  the  class-room  at  Bennington  College. 
Miss  Milman  herself  teaches  philosophy.  But  she 


86 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


owes  it  all  to  the  ships.  Far  away  over  the  sea, 
Plato  and  Aristotle  and  Socrates  wrestled  with  the 
problems  of  the  universe  in  the  old  days;  and  far 
away  over  the  sea  Kant  and  Hegel  and  Bergson 
pondered  those  same  problems  in  a  later  time;  and 
the  ships  have  brought  us  the  wealthy  fruitage  of 
their  profound  cogitations.  ‘And  here/  Miss  Mil- 
man  told  me,  ‘the  girls  assemble  in  the  morning  for 
the  scripture  lesson.’  I  do  not  know  exactly  how 
that  half-hour  is  spent;  but  I  am  certain  that,  even 
then.  Miss  Milman  sets  before  her  pupils  food  from 
afar.  The  Bible  itself  has  come  to  us  across  the 
ocean.  The  world  is  only  rolling  into  light  be¬ 
cause  the  ships,  with  their  white  sails,  have  dotted 
every  sea.  ‘The  prayers  you  offer,’  says  J.  M. 
Neale,  ‘the  prayers  you  offer,  the  hymns  you  sing, 
the  books  of  devotion  you  use,  how  far,  far  hence 
in  timej  how  far,  far  hence  in  distance,  do  their 
sources  lie?  Perhaps  from  some  quaint  mediaeval 
German  house,  with  its  surrounding  fields  and  lanes 
and  gardens  buried  deep  in  snow,  you  get  a  prayer 
which  we  use  at  Christmastide.  Perhaps  from 
the  dog  days  of  an  Andalusian  Convent,  with  its 
orange  trees  and  its  pomegranates  and  its  fountains, 
you  get  such  music  as  that  lovely  introit,  “Like  as 
the  hart  desireth  after  the  waterbrooks.”  Perhaps 
from  the  tomb  of  a  martyr  you  get  such  a  hymn  as 
“O  God,  Thy  soldiers’  crown  and  guard.”  ’  Prayers, 
music,  hymns;  they  are  all  the  same.  They  come 
from  afar,  from  afar.  I  left  Bennington  College 


A  Good  Wife  and  a  Gallant  Ship 


87 


feeling  that,  after  all,  Miss  Milman  is  very  much 
like  Solomon’s  housewife;  she  is  entirely  dependent 
on  the  ships;  she  bringeth  her  food  from  afar. 

VI 

Now  that  I  come  to  look  a  little  more  closely  at 
the  comely  features  of  this  virtuous  woman — the 
woman  who  is  like  the  merchant  ships — I  fancy 
that  I  recognize  her.  For  she  is  none  other  than 
the  Bride,  the  Lamb’s  wife.  When  the  Church 
spreads  her  white  cloth,  and  sets  her  wondrous 
table,  she  invariably  decks  it  with  food  from  afar. 
Listen  as  she  invites  you  to  partake  of  her  heavenly 
fare! 

*The  body  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  which  was 
given  for  thee,  preserve  thy  body  and  soul  unto  ever¬ 
lasting  life.  Take  and  eat  this  in  remembrance  that 
Christ  died  for  thee,  and  feed  on  Him  in  thy  heart 
by  faith  with  thanksgiving  J 

And  listen  again: 

*The  blood  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  which  was 
shed  for  thee,  preserve  thy  body  and  soul  unto  ever¬ 
lasting  life.  Drink  this  in  remembrance  that  Chrisfs 
blood  was  shed  for  thee  and  be  thankful/ 

Food  from" afar!  Food  from  afar!  She  is  like 
the  merchant  ships;  she  bringeth  her  food  from 
afar!  Such  viands  can  have  been  procured  from 
no  earthy  source.  This  Bread  was  made  from 
wheat  that  grew  in  no  earthly  field ;  this  Wine  was 
pressed  from  clusters  that  hung  on  no  earthly  vine. 


88 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


The  happy  guests  who  sit  at  the  Churches  table  find 
that,  as  they  partake  of  her  sacred  hospitalities, 
there  is  ministered  to  them  a  comfort  that  wipes  all 
tears  from  all  faces,  a  hope  that  transfigures  with 
strange  radiance  every  unborn  day,  and  a  peace 
that  passeth  all  understanding.  They  know,  as  they 
taste  this  delectable  fare,  that  such  fruits  grew  in 
no  earthly  garden.  And  then,  with  faces  that  shine 
like  the  faces  of  the  angels,  they  remember  at  whose 
table  they  are  seated,  and  they  say  one  to  another, 
*She  is  like  the  merchant  ships;  she  bringeth  her 
food  from  afar/  And  that  golden  testimony  is 
true. 


PART  II 


I 


ODD  VOLUMES 

We  have  had  a  kind  of  wedding  in  my  study 
this  morning.  The  bride  arrived  by  post.  It 
happened  in  this  wise.  Twenty  years  ago  I  at¬ 
tended  an  auction  sale  at  Mosgiel.  A  valuable 
library  was  under  the  hammer  and  the  chance  was 
too  good  to  be  missed.  The  books  were  all  tied  up 
in  bundles  and  laid  out  on  tables.  I  took  a  note  of 
the  numbers  of  those  lots  that  contained  works  that 
I  wanted.  When,  on  the  arrival  of  the  carrier’s 
cart,  I  proudly  inspected  my  purchases,  I  found 
among  them  an  odd  volume.  It  was  the  first  part 
of  Foster^ s  Life  and  Correspondence.  The  book 
was  bound  up  with  a  number  of  others,  and  I  could 
not  buy  them  without  becoming  responsible  for  it. 
My  first  inclination  was  to  throw  it  away;  and  the 
temptation  recurred  when  I  left  Mosgiel  for  Hobart, 
and  again  when  I  left  Hobart  for  Armadale.  Of 
what  use  was  an  odd  volume?  In  packing  up  at 
Hobart  I  actually  tossed  it  to  the  heap  of  rubbish 
that  was  to  be  left  behind;  but  an  aching  void  in 
the  last  case  led  to  its  ultimate  rescue.  This  is  the 
first  part  of  our  little  romance. 

Last  week  I  was  visiting  a  country  minister. 
In  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  I  glanced  over  his 


91 


92 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


book-shelves.  I  was  just  turning  away,  when, 
among  some  dusty  volumes  away  on  the  topmost 
shelf,  my  eye  caught  the  words  Foster’s  Life  and 
Correspondence.  It,  too,  was  an  odd  volume.  On 
hearing  of  my  own  experience,  the  good  man  urged 
me  to  transfer  the  volume  to  my  portmanteau  and 
say  no  more  about  it.  It  was,  he  said,  of  no  use 
to  him. 

‘But,  my  dear  fellow,’  I  replied,  ‘I  might  just  as 
well  say  that  mine  is  of  no  use  to  me.  We  must 
leave  the  matter  in  the  meantime.  It  is  so  long 
since  I  looked  at  the  volume  on  my  shelves  that  I 
cannot  be  sure  that  they  are  companions.  They 
may  be  duplicates.  Yours,  I  see,  is  Volume  Two. 
If,  on  my  return,  I  find  that  mine  is  Volume  One, 
we  will  come  to  some  arrangement.  If  not,  neither 
of  us  can  help  the  other.’ 

My  Mosgiel  purchase  turned  out  to  be  the  first 
volume.  I  posted  my  friend  a  copy  of  Bleak 
House,  which,  as  I  happened  to  know,  he  had  never 
read,  and  he  forwarded  the  Foster  by  return  of 
post.  And  this  morning  I  took  the  odd  volume 
from  the  lumber  on  the  top  shelf,  introduced  it  to  its 
mate,  and  now  the  two  stand  proudly  side  by  side 
among  my  biographies.  They  make  a  handsome 
pair:  no  bride  and  bridegroom  could  look  more 
perfectly  matched.  I  do  not  suppose  that  they 
had  ever  met  before  ;  but  that  circumstance  in  itself 
presents  no  lawful  impediment  to  their  being  united 
in  a  lifelong  partnership. 


Odd  Volumes 


93 


The  mating  of  books  is  a  very  mechanical  affair. 
At  a  big  publishing  house  you  may  see  two  huge 
cases  side  by  side,  just  as  they  have  come  from  the 
printer’s.  The  one  is  packed  with  copies  of  Volume 
One;  the  other  contains  copies  of  Volume  Two. 
An  assistant,  asked  by  a  customer  for  a  copy  of 
the  complete  work,  takes  a  book  from  the  one  box 
and  a  book  from  the  other;  claps  them  together 
with  a  bang;  and  they  are  mated  for  all  time  to 
come.  There  is  no  question  of  selection,  and  no 
question  of  consent.  There  is  no  *Wilt  thou  have 
.  .  .  ’  and  no  *I  will.*  The  volume  in  the  top 

right-hand  corner  of  the  one  box  is  unable  to  steal 
a  shy  and  furtive  glance  at  the  book  lying  in  a 
corresponding  position  in  the  other  box.  His 
destined  partner  may  be  a  little  plumper  or  a  little 
thinner  than  himself ;  she  may  be  neatly  attired  in 
a  pretty  cover  that  sets  off  her  charms  to  perfection, 
or  she  may  be  dressed  in  an  ill-fitting  wrapper  that 
is  smudged  or  torn;  he  cannot  tell.  He  can  only 
wait,  and  she  can  only  wait,  until  they  are  uncere¬ 
moniously  snatched  from  their  respective  corners, 
banged  together,  and  thus,  for  richer  for  poorer, 
for  better  for  worse,  made  partners  in  a  bond  that 
is  indissoluble.  There  is  no  question  of  sexual 
selection  such  as  Darwin,  Wallace,  and  the  great 
biologists  like  to  portray.  The  books  in  the  one 
box  do  not  strut  and  parade  and  show  off  their 
beauties  in  order  to  win  the  admiration  of  the  books 
in  the  other  box.  That  may  be  because  they  are 


94 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


conscious  that  they  are  all  so  much  alike;  they 
feel  that  there  is  little  to  pick  and  choose  between 
them;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  because 
they  suspect  that  the  books  in  the  other  box  are  all 
much  of  a  muchness,  and  that  it  matters  very  little 
which  bride  each  bridegroom  has.  But,  whatever 
the  reason,  there  it  is!  There  is  no  element  of 
selection  such  as  we  find  in  the  fields  and  the  forests ; 
there  is  no  lovemaking  and  courtship  such  as  we 
mortals  know;  the  volumes  are  arbitrarily  paired 
off,  and  the  thing  is  done. 

And,  strangely  enough,  they  appear  to  belong  to 
each  Other  from  that  very  moment.  One  would 
feel  that  he  was  conniving  at  a  kind  of  literary 
adultery  if  he  were  to  take  the  second  volume  of 
this  set  and  the  second  volume  of  that  set  and 
deliberately  transpose  them.  I  call  the  earth  and 
the  heavens  tO'  witness  that,  in  my  procedure  this 
morning,  I  have  been  guilty  of  no  such  enormity. 
We  are  living  in  a  rough  world.  With  some  books, 
as  with  some  people,  things  go  hardly.  In  the 
course  of  years  a  volume  may  be  cruelly  deserted 
by  its  companion;  or  its  partner  may  come  to  an 
untimely  end.  The  law  of  the  land  provides  that 
in  such  sad  cases,  a  second  marriage  is  no  shame. 
One  does  not  like  to  think  of  my  first  volume  of 
Foster  spending  all  its  days  among  the  lumber  on 
my  top  shelf,  and  of  my  friend's  second  volume 
spending  all  its  days  in  the  dust  and  neglect  of  his 
top  shelf.  I  do  not  often  take  my  stand  on  my 


Odd  Volumes 


95 


ministerial  dignity;  but  I  maintain  that,  being  a 
minister,  I  have  at  least  as  good  a  right  as  any 
publisher’s  assistant  to  take  those  two  sad  and 
lonely  volumes — the  one  from  my  top  shelf  in  the 
city,  and  the  other  from  my  friend’s  top  shelf  in  the 
country — and  to  unite  them  in  the  holy  bond  of 
matrimony.  And  as  they  stand  before  me  side  by 
side — never  to  perch  upon  a  top  shelf  any  more — 
I  feel  that  I  have  done  myself,  my  friend  and  them 
good  service  by  having  taken  pity  on  their  loneliness 
and  launched  them  on  a  united  career  of  happiness 
and  usefulness.  As  things  stood,  neither  was  of 
any  use  to  anybody;  their  union  has  made  it  pos¬ 
sible  for  each  to  fulfill  its  destiny. 

Let  it  be  distinctly  understood  that  I  am  not 
writing,  of  single  volumes.  A  single  volume  is  not 
an  odd  volume.  As  I  sit  here  at  my  desk  and  survey 
my  shelves,  I  see  at  a  glance  that  many  of  the  books 
are  complete  in  one  volume.  It  would  be  the  height 
of  absurdity  for  me  to  take  one  such  book,  say 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  another  such  book,  say 
Pickwick  Papers,  and  declare  them  Volumes  One 
and  Two  for  the  mere  sake  of  pairing  them  off. 
Neither  the  publisher’s  assistant  nor  the  minister 
is  vested  with  authority  to  mate  the  books  after  so 
arbitrary  a  fashion.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  a 
single  volume,  and  the  Pickwick  Papers  is  a  single 
volume;  and  it  is  better  for  them  to  do  the  work 
that  they  were  sent  into  the  world  to  do  as  single 
volumes,  rather  than  to  enter  into  an  alliance  that 


96 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


will  make  them  each  ridiculous  and  stultify  them 
both.  I  am  not  arguing  for  the  celibacy  of  the 
clergy  or  for  the  celibacy  of  the  laity;  how  could 
I  consistently  adopt  such  a  line  of  reasoning  im¬ 
mediately  after  having  celebrated  the  marriage  of 
the  Fosters'^  I  am  simply  telling  all  the  single 
volumes  in  my  study — who  are  looking  a  little 
downcast  and  unhappy  now  that  the  excitement  of 
the  wedding  is  past — that  single  volumes  are  not 
odd  volumes.  It  is  very  nice,  of  course,  to  be  hap¬ 
pily  mated;  but  it  is  quite  possible  for  a  solitary 
life  to  be  a  very  useful  one.  Robert  Louis  Steven¬ 
son  would  have  gone  further.  In  his  Virginibus 
Puerisque  he  as  good  as  says  that  no  man  can  be  a 
hero  after  he  is  married.  The  fact  that  he  has  a 
home  of  his  own,  and  is  surrounded  by  love  and 
tenderness  and  thoughtful  care,  militates  against 
the  culture  of  the  sterner  virtues.  Tf  comfortable,’ 
Stevenson  says,  ‘marriage  is  not  heroic.  It  inevi¬ 
tably  narrows  and  damps  the  spirit  of  generous 
men.  In  marriage  a  man  becomes  stark  and  selfish, 
and  undergoes  a  fatty  degeneration  of  his  moral 
being.  The  air  of  the  fireside  withers  up  all  the  fine 
wildings  of  the  husband’s  heart.  He  is  so  com¬ 
fortable  and  happy  that  he  begins  to  prefer  com¬ 
fort  and  happiness  to  anything  else  on  earth,  his 
wife  included.  Yesterday  he  would  have  shared 
his  last  shilling;  to-day  his  first  duty  is  to  his 
family,  and  is  fulfilled  in  large  measure  by  laying 
down  vintages  and  husbanding  the  health  of  an  in- 


Odd  Volumes 


97 


valuable  parent.  Twenty  years  ago  this  man  was 
equally  capable  of  crime  or  heroism;  now  he  is  fit 
for  neither.  His  soul  is  asleep,  and  you  may  speak 
without  restraint;  for  you  will  not  waken  him.^ 

In  his  references  to  women,  Stevenson  does  not 
speak  quite  so  confidently.  Tt  is  true,’  he  says, 
‘that  some  of  the  merriest  and  most  genuine  of 
women  are  old  maids,  and  that  those  old  maids, 
and  wives  who  are  unhappily  married,  have  often 
most  of  the  motherly  touch.  And  this  would  seem 
to  show,  even  for  women,  the  same  narrowing 
influence  in  comfortable  married  life.’  Yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  feels  that  marriage  affects  a  woman 
differently.  It  makes  greater  demands  upon  her. 
The  very  comfort  which  is  the  husband’s  peril  is 
largely  the  fruit  of  her  thoughtfulness,  her  industry 
and  her  unselfishness.  With  wifehood,  too,  comes 
motherhood;  and  motherhood,  side  by  side  with 
felicities  that  only  mothers  know,  inflicts  a  ceaseless 
discipline  of  suffering  and  self-denial.  ‘For 
women,’  Stevenson  admits,  ‘there  is  less  danger. 
Marriage  is  of  so  much  use  to  a  woman,  opens  out 
so  much  more  in  life,  and  puts  her  in  the  way  of  so 
much  freedom  and  usefulness  that,  whether  she 
marry  ill  or  well,  she  can  hardly  miss  the  benefit.’ 
And  he  sums  up  by  advising  you,  ‘If  you  wish  the 
pick  of  men  and  women,  take  a  good  bachelor  and 
a  good  wife.’  Since,  however,  if  all  women  became 
good  wives,  all  men  could  not  remain  good 
bachelors,  it  is  obvious  that  Stevenson  is  crying  for 


98 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


the  moon.  But  he  has  said  enough  to  dispel  the 
gloomy  and  downcast  looks  that  disfigured  the 
countenances  of  all  my  single  volumes  immediately 
after  the  wedding.  Single  volumes  are  certainly 
not  odd  volumes;  the}^  are  complete  in  themselves; 
and  we  are  all  very  glad  of  them. 

But  there  are  odd  volumes.  Charles  Wagner  says 
that  ‘in  certain  shelters  for  old  people,  where 
husbands  and  wives  may  pass  a  tranquil  old  age 
together,  a  very  expressive  term  is  used  to  designate 
one  who  is  left  alone.  The  bereft  solitary  is  called 
an  odd  volume.  How  appropriate — like  a  book 
astray  from  its  companion  tome!  Odd  volumes 
indeed,  those  who  have  hitherto  been  one  of  two 
inseparables !  They  celebrated  their  silver  and 
golden  weddings,  and  suddenly  find  themselves 
desolate.  They  seem  like  guests  left  behind  at  the 
end  of  the  feast  or  the  play;  the  lights  are  out,  the 
curtain  is  down ;  they  wander  about  in  the  emptiness 
like  souls  in  torment,  possessed  with  the  idea  of 
continually  searching  for  something  they  have  lost. 
They  hardly  refrain  from  asking  “Have  you  seen 
my  husband?’’  “Where  shall  I  find  my  wife?” 
Odd  volumes,  these!’  And  you  may  find  them  in 
palaces  as  well  as  in  almshouses.  Did  we  not  all 
hear  the  cry  that  rang  through  the  halls  of  Windsor 
on  the  day  on  which  the  Prince  Consort  passed 
away?  T  have  no  one  now  to  call  me  “Victoria”!’ 
And  there  are  others.  They  knew  no  golden  wed¬ 
ding,  no  silver  wedding,  no  wedding  at  all ;  and  yet 


Odd  Volumes 


99 


felt  themselves  mated.  Some,  like  Evangeline  and 
Gabriel — and  like  my  two  Fosters — are  separated 
by  distance  and  ignorance  of  each  other’s  where¬ 
abouts.  Some,  like  Drumsheugh  and'Marget  Howe, 
are  separated  by  the  iron  hand  of  circumstance ; 
some  are  kept  apart  by  cruel  misunderstandings  and 
mistaken  judgments;  and  some — 

Women  there  are  on  earth,  most  sweet  and  high. 
Who  lose  their  own,  and  walk  bereft  and  lonely, 

Loving  that  one  lost  heart  until  they  die 
Loving  it  only. 

And  so  they  never  see  beside  them  grow 
Children,  whose  coming  is  like  breath  of  flowers; 

Consoled  by  subtler  loves  than  angels  know 
Through  childless  hours. 

Faithful  in  life,  and  faithful  unto  death. 

Such  souls,  in  sooth,  illume  with  lustre  splendid 

That  glimpsed,  glad  land  wherein,  the  Vision  saith, 
Earth’s  wrongs  are  ended. 

The  purest  spirit  that  ever  walked  this  earth  of 
ours  was— -I  say  it  reverently — an  odd  volume. 
I  do  not  mean  that  He  was  a  single  volume  :  I 
mean  far  more  than  that.  He  felt  that  He  was  not 
single:  He  was  not  complete  in  Himself.  In  some 
wonderful  and  mystical  way,  Deity  and  Humanity 
were  odd  volumes;  volumes  that  were  intended  to 
supplement  and  complete  each  other;  volumes  that 
had  become  alienated  and  torn  asunder.  The  amaz¬ 
ing  thing  about  the  Scriptures  is  that,  in  both 

> 


lOO 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


Testaments,  they  employ  the  very  phraseology  of 
mating  and  marriage.  The  quest  that  led  to  the 
Cross  is  the  quest  of  the  lover  for  His  betrothed; 
and  the  consummation  of  all  things  is  to  be  a  mar¬ 
riage  supper — the  Marriage  Supper  of  the  Lamb. 
And  it  may  be  that,  in  the  larger,  the  lesser  is  in¬ 
cluded.  It  may  be  that  when  Deity  and  Humanity, 
so  long  estranged,  are  at  length  perfectly  united, 
other  odd  volumes  will  find  their  mates  and  the 
isolations  of  this  life  be  swallowed  up  in  the  glad 
reunions  of  the  life  everlasting. 


II 


O’ER  CRAG  AND  TORRENT 

I 

Lexie  Drummond  had  a  place  of  her  own  in  the 
hearts  of  the  Mosgiel  people.  To  begin  with,  she 
was  lonely;  and  lonely  folk  have  a  remarkable 
way  of  exacting  secret  homage.  Lexie  worked  at 
a  loom  in  the  woollen  factory,  and  lived  by  herself 
in  one  of  the  factory  cottages  near  by.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  it.  The  door  invariably  stood 
open,  even  when  Lexie  was  away  at  her  work. 
Everything  was  faultlessly  natty  and  clean.  An 
enormous  tabby  cat,  ‘Matey,’  purred  on  the  mat, 
while  a  golden  canary  sang  bravely  from  his  cage 
in  the  creeper  just  outside  the  door.  Lexie  had  a 
trim  little  garden,  in  which  she  grew  lavender  and 
mignonette,  roses  and  carnations.  Lexie’s  white 
carnations  always  took  the  prize  at  our  local  Flower 
Show.  Lexie  mothered  Mosgiel.  If  anybody  was 
in  trouble,  she  would  be  sure  to  drop  in;  and,  in 
cases  of  serious  sickness,  she  would  often  stay  the 
night.  Some  people  would  deny  that  Lexie  was 
beautiful;  yet  she  had  a  loveliness  peculiar  to  her¬ 
self.  She  was  tall,  finely-built,  and  wonderfully 
strong.  When  Roger  Gunton,  the  heaviest  man  on 
the  plain,  was  seized  with  sudden  illness,  and  his 


lOI 


102 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


body  was  racked  with  excruciating  pain,  Lexie  alone 
could  turn  him  from  side  to  side,  and  he  would  allow 
nobody  else  to  touch  him.  If  her  face  lacked  the 
vivacity  and  sparkle  of  more  voluptuous  beauties, 
it  possessed,  nevertheless,  a  quiet  gravity,  a  seri¬ 
ous  winsomeness,  that  rendered  it  extremely  attrac¬ 
tive.  The  furrows  in  her  face,  and  the  strands  of 
grey  in  her  hair,  made  her  look  older  than  she 
really  was.  Everybody  knew  Lexie^s  age ;  her  name 
was  a  perpetual  reminder  of  the  number  of  her 
years.  For,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  she  had 
once  revealed  the  circumstance  that  she  was  born 
on  the  day  on  which  the  Princess  of  Wales — aften 
wards  Queen  Alexandra — was  married,  and  she 
was  named  after  the  royal  bride.  Mosgiel  never 
forgot  personal  details  of  that  kind.  In  addition 
to  all  this,  Mosgiel  vaguely  suspected  that  Lexie 
carried  a  secret  in  her  breast.  She  came  to  Mosgiel 
only  a  few  years  before  I  did ;  and  everybody  felt 
that  her  previous  history  was  involved  in  tantalizing 
mystery. 

II 

It  was  Friday  night.  In  the  dining-room  at  the 
Mosgiel  manse  we  were  enjoying  a  quiet  evening  by 
the  fire.  I  was  lounging  in  an  armchair  with  a 
novel.  I  could  afford  to  be  restful,  for,  that  week, 
I  had  but  one  sermon  to  prepare.  On  the  approach¬ 
ing  Sunday,  the  anniversary  of  the  Sunday  school 
was  to  be  celebrated;  in  the  morning  John 


O’er  Crag  and  Torrent 


103 


Broadbanks  and  I  were  exchanging  pulpits  in 
honor  of  the  occasion;  and,  availing  myself  of  a 
minister’s  immemorial  prerogative,  I  had  decided 
to  preach  an  old  sermon  at  Silverstream.  All  at 
once  we  were  startled  by  the  ringing  of  the  front¬ 
door  bell.  It  was  the  Sunday  school  superintendent. 

We  are  in  an  awful  hole,’  he  exclaimed,  after 
having  discussed  the  weather,  the  health  of  our 
respective  families,  and  a  few  other  inevitable  pre¬ 
liminaries.  ‘Lexie  Drummond  has  been  taken  ill, 
and  the  doctor  won’t  hear  of  her  leaving  the  house 
for  a  week  or  two.  She  has  been  preparing  the  chil¬ 
dren  for  their  part-songs,  and  has  the  whole  pro¬ 
gramme  at  her  fingers’  ends;  I  don’t  know  how  on 
earth  we  are  going  to  manage  without  her.’ 

I  promised  to  run  down  and  see  Lexie  about  it 
first  thing  in  the  morning;  and  did  so.  Lexie  was 
confined  to  her  bed,  and  old  Janet  Davidson  was 
nursing  her.  ‘Matey’  was  curled  up  close  to  his 
mistress’s  feet,  while  the  canary  was  singing 
blithely  from  his  cage  near  the  open  window.  I 
saw  at  a  glance  that  Lexie  had  been  crying,  and  I 
attributed  her  grief  to  anxiety  and  disappointment 
in  connection  with  the  anniversary.  She  quickly 
undeceived  me. 

‘You’ll  never  notice  that  I’m  not  there,’  she  said, 
with  a  watery  smile.  ‘The  children  know  their 
parts  thoroughly,  and  Bella  Christie,  who  has  been 
helping  me,  is  as  familiar  with  the  program  as  I 

am.’ 


104 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


I  assured  her  that  we  should  miss  her  sadly;  but 
expressed  my  relief  that  everything  had  been  so 
well  arranged. 

‘And  now,  Lexie,’  I  said,  as  I  took  her  hand  in 
parting,  ‘you  must  worry  no  more  about  it;  we 
will  do  our  very  best  to  make  it  pass  off  well.’ 

‘Oh,’  she  replied,  quickly,  recognizing  in  my 
words  a  reference  to  her  tell-tale  eyes,  ‘it  wasn’t 
the  anniversary  that  I  was  worrying  about;  indeed, 
it  was  silly  of  me  to  cry  at  all !’  And,  to  show  how 
extremely  silly  it  was,  she  broke,  with  womanish 
perversity,  into  a  fresh  outburst  of  tears. 

‘She  has  something  she  wants  to  tell  you,’  Janet 
interposed,  ‘but  she  doesn’t  like  to.’ 

Lexie  pretended  to  look  vexed  at  the  old  lady’s 
garrulity;  but  I  fancied  that  I  detected,  behind  the 
frown,  a  look  of  real  relief. 

‘Some  other  time,’  she  said.  ‘Good-^bye,  I  shall 
think  of  you  all  to-morrow!’  Janet  opened  the 
door  and  I  left  her. 


Ill 

The  anniversary  passed  off  happily;  Lexie  was 
soon  herself  again;  and,  a  fortnight  later,  I  saw 
her  in  her  old  place  at  church.  We  knew  that  she 
would  insist  on  taking  her  class  in  the  afternoon; 
so,  to  save  her  the  long  walk  home,  we  took  her 
to  the  manse  to  dinner. 

‘Several  of  the  teachers  have  been  telling  me 
of  the  address  that  you  gave  on  the  evening  of 


O’er  Crag  and  Torrent  105 

the  Sunday  school  anniversary/  she  said,  on  our 
way  to  the  manse.  ‘I  wish  you  would  let  me  see 
the  manuscript.’ 

‘I  can  do  better  than  that,’  I  replied.  ‘The  ad¬ 
dress  was  printed  in  yesterday’s  Taieri  Advocate. 
I  have  several  copies  to  spare  if  you  care  to  have 
one.’ 

On  arrival  at  the  manse  she  insisted  on  going 
round  the  garden  and  admiring  the  flowers  before 
composing  herself  on  the  sofa  in  the  dining-room. 
I  gave  her  the  paper  I  had  promised  her,  and  hurried 
away  to  prepare  for  dinner.  When  I  returned  a  few 
minutes  later  the  paper  was  lying  on  the  floor  beside 
her,  and  she  was  crying  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  By  a  supreme  effort  she  regained  her  self- 
possession,  promised  to  explain  in  the  afternoon, 
and,  in  obedience  to  the  summons,  took  her  place  at 
table. 

During  dinner  I  mentally  reviewed  the  address 
which  had  so  strangely  reopened  the  fountains  of 
her  grief.  It  was  the  address  which,  under  the 
title  ‘The  Little  Palace  Beautiful,’  appears  in  The 
Golden  Milestone.  It  begins  :  ‘There  are  only  four 
children  in  the  wide,  wide  world,  and  each  of  us 
is  the  parent  of  at  least  one  of  them.’  The  first 
of  the  four  is  The  Little  Child  that  Never  Was. 
‘He  is,’  the  address  says,  ‘an  exquisitely  beautiful 
child.  He  is  the  child  of  all  lonely  men  and  lonely 
women,  the  child  of  their  dreams  and  their  fancies, 
the  child  that  will  never  be  born.  He  is  the  son 


io6 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


of  the  solitary/  And  the  address  goes  on  to  quote 
from  Ada  Cambridge’s  Virgin  Martyrs: 

Every  wild  she-bird  has  nest  and  mate  in  the  warm  April 
weather, 

But  a  captive  woman,  made  for  love,  no  mate,  no  nest,  has 
she. 

In  the  spring  of  young  desire,  young  men  and  maids  are  wed 
together. 

And  the  happy  mothers  flaunt  their  bliss  for  all  the  world  to 
see; 

Nature’s  sacramental  feast  for  them — an  empty  board  for 
me. 

Time,  that  heals  so  many  sorrows,  keeps  mine  ever  freshly 
aching, 

Though  my  face  is  growing  furrowed  and  my  brown  hair 
turning  white. 

Still  I  mourn  my  irremediable  loss,  asleep  or  waking; 

Still  I  hear  my  son’s  voice  calling  ‘Mother’  in  the  dead  of 
night. 

And  am  haunted  by  my  girl’s  eyes  that  will  never  see  the 
light. 

As  the  address  came  back  to  me,  I  began  to  under¬ 
stand.  I  remembered  what  the  gossips  said  about 
the  mystery  in  Lexie’s  life.  What  was  it,  I 
wondered,  that  she  meant  to  tell  me  after  dinner? 

IV 

‘You  don’t  know  me!’  she  cried  passionately, 
when,  once  more,  we  found  ourselves  alone  together. 
‘You  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  good  woman;  you  let 
me  work  at  the  church,  and  you  bring  me  into  your 
home;  but  you  don’t  know  me;  really,  really,  you 


O’er  Crag  and  Torrent  107 

don’t!  I  have  committed  a  great  sin,  a  very  great 
sin ;  and  I  am  suffering  for  it ;  and  others  are  suffer¬ 
ing  for  it.’  She  paused,  as  if  wondering  how  to 
begin  her  story,  and  then  started  afresh. 

‘I  was  brought  up  in  the  country,’  she  said,  ‘not 
far  from  Hokitui.  My  parents  both  died  when  I 
was  a  little  girl ;  my  guardians  followed  them  a  few 
years  ago ;  so  that  now  I  am  quite  alone.  At  school 
I  became  very  fond  of  Davie  Bannerman,  and 
he  made  no  secret  of  his  partiality  for  me.  He 
used  to  bring  me  something — an  apple  or  a  cake  or 
•  a  picture  or  some  sweets — every  day.  When  I 
was  nineteen  we  became  engaged  and  were  both 
very  happy  about  it.  Everybody  in  the  Hokitui 
district  loved  Davie;  he  was  handsome  and  good- 
natured;  I  used  to  think  his  laugh  the  grandest 
music  I  had  ever  heard.  But  I  was  proud,  terribly 
proud.  And,  being  proud,  I  was  selfish.  And, 
being  selfish,  I  was  jealous.  Davie  was  good  to 
everybody;  yet  I  could  not  bear  to  see  him  paying 
attention  to  anybody  but  myself.  He  was  a  mem¬ 
ber  of  the  Hokitui  church,  and  used  to  spend  a  good 
deal  of  time  there.  I  had  no  interest  in  such  things 
in  those  days,  and  I  was  angry  with  him  for  neglect¬ 
ing  me.  But  most  of  all  was  I  jealous  of  Sadie 
McKay.  Sadie  was  his  cousin;  she  was  one  of  the 
church  girls ;  and  I  hated  to  think,  when  he  was  not 
with  me,  that  he  was  with  her.  Davie  always  took 
my  scoldings  merrily,  and  quickly  coaxed  me  into  a 
better  mind.  And  I  dare  say  that  all  would  have 


io8 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


gone  well  but  for  the  accident  that  spoiled  every¬ 
thing. 

^Sadie  was  riding  in  from  the  farm  one  morning 
when,  on  the  outskirts  of  Hokitui,  she  met  a  trac¬ 
tion  engine.  Her  horse  bolted,  and  was  soon  out 
of  control.  As  luck  would  have  it,  Davie  was  stand¬ 
ing  at  a  shop  door  near  the  township  corner,  and 
saw  the  horse  galloping  madly  towards  him.  He 
rushed  into  the  road  and  managed  to  check  the 
animal  before  Sadie  was  thrown;  but,  in  doing  so, 
he  was  hurled  to  the  ground,  and  the  horse  trod  on 
his  right  arm,  crushing  it.  He  lay  in  the  hospital 
for  nearly  two  months ;  but  I  never  went  near  him. 
When  he  left  the  hospital  he  wrote  to  me.  It  was 
a  pitiful  scrawl,  written  with  his  left  hand;  his 
right  was  amputated.  have  had  a  heavy  loss,’’ 
he  said,  *^and  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  manage 
without  my  arm;  but  now  I  must  suffer  a  still 
heavier  loss,  and  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  live 
without  you.  But  it  would  not  be  right  for  me 
to  burden  you,  and  you  must  find  somebody  else, 
Lexie,  who  can  care  for  you  better  than  I  can.” 
I  returned  the  engagement  ring,  and  that  was  the 
end  of  it.  If  he  had  lost  his  arm  in  any  other  way 
I  could  have  endured  life-long  poverty  with  him; 
but  to  have  lost  his  arm  for  Sadie!’  She  paused 
and  seemed  to  be  looking  out  of  the  window,  but 
I  knew  that  her  story  was  not  finished. 

‘A  few  months  later  I  took  a  situation  in  Ashbur¬ 
ton.  There  I  met,  at  a  party,  a  young  English- 


O’er  Crag  and  Torrent  109 

man — Horace  Latch  ford — who  took  a  fancy  to  me. 
He  was  visiting  New  Zealand  for  the  sake  of  his 
health.  He  told  me  that  he  owned  a  large  estate  in 
Devonshire,  and  would  make  me  a  perfect  queen. 
During  his  stay — a  period  of  about  four  months — 
life  was  one  long  frolic.  Six  months  later  he  sent 
for  me  to  go  to  him ;  and  I  went.  But  my  eyes  were 
soon  opened.  There  was  no  estate  in  Devonshire; 
Horace  was  often  intoxicated  when  he  came  to  see 
me;  and,  instead  of  getting  married,  I  returned  to 
New  Zealand  in  disgust.  I  came  to  Mosgiel,  partly 
because  I  knew  that  I  could  get  good  work  in  the 
factory,  and  partly  because  I  knew  that  nobody 
here  would  know  me.  Since  I  returned  from 
England,  ten  years  ago,  I  have  only  met  one  person 
who  knew  me  in  the  old  days  at  Hokitui.  I  was 
spending  a  holiday  at  Moeraki,  and  she  was  staying 
at  the  same  boarding-house.  I  did  not  tell  her 
that  I  had  settled  at  Mosgiel;  but  she  told  me  that 
none  of  the  Bannermans  were  now  living  at 
Hokitui.  Davie,  she  said,  was  the  first  to  leave.  He 
went  to  one  of  the  cities  to  learn  a  profession  that 
did  not  imperatively  demand  the  use  of  twO'  hands.’ 
She  paused  again,  and  I  waited. 

‘When  I  came  to  Mosgiel,’  she  went  on,  T 
got  in  the  way  of  coming  to  the  church.  I  became 
deeply  impressed,  and  you  received  me  into  member¬ 
ship.  And,  every  day  since,  as  I  have  done  little 
things,  and  taken  little  duties,  in  connection  with 
the  work,  I  have  come  to  understand  Davie  as  I 


no 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


never  understood  him  in  the  old  days.  I  hated  his 
fondness  for  the  church.  And,  every  day  now, 
my  sin  seems  to  be  more  and  more  terrible.  Just 
lately  it  has  been  with  me  night  and  day.  And  when 
I  read  your  address  my  punishment  seemed  greater 
than  I  could  bear.  I  have  prayed  thousands  of  times 
that  the  dreadful  tangle  might  be  unravelled.  I 
have  not  prayed  selfishly;  I  could  be  perfectly  con¬ 
tented  if  only  I  knew  that  Davie  is  happy,  and 
that  his  faith  in  God  and  womanhood  has  not  been 
shaken  by  my  wickedness.  We  sang  Lead,  Kindly 
Light  in  church  this  morning.  Do  you  think  that 
God  really  guides  us?  Does  He  put  us  right  even 
when  we  have  done  wrong?  Will  He  straighten 
things  out?  I  would  give  anything  to  be  quite 
sure !  I  seem  to  be  in  a  maze,  and  can  find  no  way 
out  of  itr 

V 

It  seemed  an  infinite  relief  to  Lexie  to  have  told 
me  her  story.  She  was  much  more  often  at  the 
manse  after  that ;  a  new  bond  seemed  to  have  sprung 
up  between  us.  I  fancied  that  there  came  into 
Lexie’s  face  a  deeper  peace  and  a  greater  content. 
The  peace  was,  however,  rudely  broken.  About 
two  years  after  Lexie  had  unburdened  her  soul  to 
me,  I  opened  the  paper  one  morning  and  con¬ 
fronted  a  startling  announcement.  The  personal 
paragraphs  contained  the  statement  that  'Mr.  David 
Bannerman,  the  brilliant  Auckland  solicitor,  has  been 


O’er  Crag  and  Torrent 


III 


appointed  Lecturer  in  Common  Law  at  the  Otago 
University/  There  followed  a  brief  outline  of  the 
new  professor’s  career  which  left  no  shadow  of 
doubt  as  to  his  identity.  I  particularly  noticed  that 
there  was  no  reference  to  his  marriage.  What,  if 
anything,  was  to  be  done?  The  Otago  University 
was  in  Dunedin,  only  ten  miles  from  Mosgiel. 
Ought  I  to  allow  these  two  people  to  drift  on,  per¬ 
haps  for  years,  eating  their  hearts  out  within  a  few 
miles  of  each  other?  Was  it  not  due  to  Davie  that 
he  should  know  that  Lexie  was  at  Mosgiel?  He 
might  desire  to  seek  her;  or  he  might  desire  to 
avoid  her;  in  either  case  the  information  would  be 
of  value.  I  stated  the  position  in  this  way  to  Lexie, 
but  she  would  not  hear  of  my  taking  any  action. 
After  a  while,  however,  she  agreed  to  my  writing, 
telling  the  professor-elect  that  I  knew  of  her  where¬ 
abouts.  I  added  that  she  was  universally  loved  and 
honored  for  her  fine  work  in  the  church  and  in  the 
district.  I  enclosed  a  copy  of  ‘The  Little  Palace 
Beautiful,’  and  mentioned  the  fact  that  I  had  once 
caught  her  weeping  bitterly  as  she  read  it.  It  took 
four  days  for  a  mail  from  Mosgiel  to  reach  Auck¬ 
land.  After  a  long  talk  with  Lexie,  I  posted  my 
letter  on  a  Sunday  evening.  On  Friday  afternoon 
I  received  a  reply-paid  telegram:  Wire  lady^s  ad¬ 
dress  immediately/ 

The  new  professor  was  married  three  months 
after  entering  upon  the  duties  of  his  chair  at  the 
University;  and,  when  I  last  saw  her,  Lexie  was 


II2 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


enthroned  in  the  center  of  a  charming  little  circle. 
I  received  a  letter  from  her  yesterday — the  letter 
that  suggested  this  record.  She  tells  me,  with  par¬ 
donable  pride,  that  her  eldest  boy  has  matriculated 
and  also  joined  the  church. 

‘I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  woman  now,’  she  says, 
‘and  I  spend  a  lot  of  time  in  looking  backward. 
Isn’t  it  wonderful?  It  all  came  right  after  all! 
But  for  the  accident,  Davie  would  never  have  been 
a  professor;  and,  if  we  had  been  married  in  the 
old  days,  I  should  only  have  been  a  drag  and  a 
hindrance.  As  it  is,  we  have  passed  o’er  moor  and 
fen,  o’er  crag  and  torrent;  but  the  Kindly  Light 
that  I  once  doubted  has  led  us  all  the  way  1’ 


Ill 


THE  PRETENDER 
I 

^Lefs  pretend!'  cried  Jean. 

They  were  enjoying  a  romp  after  tea;  but  the 
game  had  been  suddenly  interrupted. 

‘How  can  we  drown  him  when  there’s  no  water  V 
asked  Ernest,  looking  wonderfully  wise. 

‘Oh,  let’s  pretend  the  lawn’s  the  water!’  replied 
Jean,  brushing  aside  with  impatience  so  trifling  a 
difficulty. 

Let's  pretend!  I  used  to  wonder  why  Bonnie 
Prince  Charlie  was  called  the  Pretender,  as  though 
he  enjoyed  some  monopoly  in  that  regard.  We  are 
all  pretenders.  Some,  perhaps,  are  more  skilful 
than  others.  Jean  was  especially  clever.  One  day  a 
lady  called  and  gave  her  a  beautiful  bunch  of 
flowers.  Ernest  was  particularly  fond  of  flowers, 
and  thought  that  he  could  capture  them  by  guile. 

‘I  say,  Jean,’  he  cried,  ‘let’s  have  a  game!  We’ll 
’tend  the  flowers  are  mine !’ 

‘All  right,’  Jean  replied,  with  a  sly  twinkle,  ‘and 
you  ’tend  you’ve  got  ’em !’ 

Precisely !  There  is  no  end  to  the  possibilities  of 
pretending.  It  is  the  one  game  of  which  we  never 
grow  tired.  We  learn  to  play  it  as  soon  as  we  are 

1 13 


Rubble  and  Roselea?es 


114 

out  of  the  cradle  and  it  still  fascinates  us  as  we 
totter  on  the  brink  of  the  grave.  Indeed,  as  H.  C. 
Bunner  shows,  childhood  and  age  often  play  the 
game  together.  Look  at  this! 

It  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  a  boy  who  was  half-past  three; 

And  the  way  that  they  played  together 
Was  beautiful  to  see. 

She  couldn’t  go  running  and  jumping, 

And  the  boy  no  more  could  he, 

For  he  was  a  pale  little  fellow, 

With  a  thin,  little  twisted  knee. 

They  sat  in  the  yellow  sunlight, 

Out  under  the  maple  tree; 

And  the  game  that  they  played  I’ll  tell  you, 

Just  as  it  was  told  to  me. 

It  was  Hide-and-Seek  they  were  playing. 

Though  you’d  never  have  known  it  to  be — 

With  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  a  boy  with  a  twisted  knee. 


The  boy  would  bend  down  his  face,  close  his  eyes, 
and  guess  where  she  was  hiding.  He  was  allowed 
three  guesses.  She  was  in  the  china-closet ! 
Wrong!  Well,  she  was  in  the  chest  in  Papa’s 
bedroom — the  chest  with  the  queer  old  key !  Wrong 
again;  but  warmer!  Well,  then,  she  was  in  the 
clothes-press!  It  was  his  third  guess,  and  it  was 
right.  In  the  clothes-press  she  was !  It  was  his  turn 
to  hide  and  Granny’s  turn  to  guess ! 


The  Pretender 


115 


Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  fingers, 

Which  were  wrinkled  and  white  and  wee; 

And  she  guessed  where  the  boy  was  hiding, 

With  a  one  and  a  two  and  a  three. 

And  they  never  had  stirred  from  their  places 
Right  under  the  maple  tree. 

This  old,  old,  old,  old  lady 
And  the  boy  with  the  lame  little  knee. 

This  dear,  dear,  dear,  old  lady 
And  the  boy  who  was  half-past  three. 

It  is  the  oldest  game  in  the  world ;  it  was  played — » 
just  as  it  is  played  to-day — before  any  other  game 
was  dreamed  of,  and  the  children  of  to-morrow  will 
be  playing  it  when  the  games  of  to-day  are  all  for¬ 
gotten.  It  is  the  most  universal  game  in  the  world ; 
it  is  played  in  Pekin  just  as  it  is  played  in  London; 
it  is  played  in  Mysore  just  as  it  is  played  in  New 
York;  it  is  played  in  Timbuctoo  just  as  we  play  it 
here  in  Melbourne.  The  rules  of  the  game  never 
alter  with  the  period  or  change  with  the  place.  It 
is  equally  popular  in  all  grades  of  society.  The 
royal  children  play  it  in  the  palace-grounds  and  the 
street  urchins  play  it  in  the  alleys  and  the  slums. 
For  the  beauty  of  it  is,  that  it  needs  no  para¬ 
phernalia  or  tackle  or  gear;  you  have  not  to  buy  a 
bat  or  a  ball,  a  racket  or  a  net;  you  do  not  require 
special  grounds  or  courts  or  links.  The  ^old,  old, 
old,  old  lady,^  and  ‘the  boy  with  the  twisted  knee* 
take  it  into  their  heads  to  have  a  game;  and,  then 
and  there,  without  moving  an  inch  or  getting  a 


ii6  Rubble  and  Roseleaves 

thing,  they  set  to  work  and  play  it!  Jean  cries, 
‘Let’s  pretend!’  and  straightway  everybody  is  pre¬ 
tending  ! 

‘Let’s  pretend!’  cried  Jean.  There  was  nothing 
original  in  the  suggestion.  If  the  words  are  not 
actually  a  quotation  from  Shakespeare,  it  is  per¬ 
fectly  certain  that  Shakespeare  uttered  them.  They 
voice  the  very  spirit  of  the  drama.  The  play  and 
the  pantomime  are  all  a  matter  of  pretending.  It 
happened  last  evening  that  I  had  an  appointment 
in  the  city.  I  had  promised  to  meet  a  friend  on  the 
Town  Hall  steps  at  half-past  seven.  I  was  early; 
it  was  a  delicious  summer’s  evening,  and  I  enjoyed 
watching  the  crowd.  The  crowd  is  always  worth 
watching,  but  at  that  hour  the  crowd  is  at  its  best. 
The  strain  of  the  day  is  over  and  the  weariness  of 
night  has  not  yet  come.  The  crowd  is  fresh, 
vivacious,  light-hearted.  As  I  stood  upon  the  steps, 
I  saw  young  men  and  maidens  keeping  their  trysts 
with  each  other;  they  were  making  nO'  effort  to 
conceal  their  joy  in  each  other’s  society;  as  they 
tripped  off  together,  they  were  laughingly  anticipat¬ 
ing  the  entertainment  to  which  they  were  hastening. 
Gentlemen  in  evening  dress,  accompanied  by  hand¬ 
some  women,  beautifully  gowned,  swept  by  in 
sumptuous  cars  that  were  brightly  lit  and  daintily 
adorned  with  choicest  flowers.  Here  and  there,  in 
this  unbroken  tide  of  traffic,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
features  more  quaint  and  of  garments  more 
fantastic.  I  saw  a  troubadour,  a  viking,  a  knight- 


The  Pretender 


I 


117 

errant,  a  pierrot  and  a  Spanish  cavalier.  I  saw  a 
gipsy  queen,  a  geisha-girl,  a  milkmaid,  an  Egyptian 
princess,  and  a  lady  of  the  court  of  Louis  the 
Fourteenth.  They  were  on  their  way  to  a  fancy 
dress  ball  at  Government  House.  I  stood  entranced 
as  this  pageant  of  pleasure  swept  past  me,  and  a 
strange  thought  seized  my  fancy.  I  reminded  my¬ 
self  that,  in  any  one  of  ten  thousand  cities,  I  might 
witness,  at  this  same  hour,  an  identically  similar 
spectacle.  If  I  could  have  taken  my  stand  in  the 
Strand  in  London,  or  in  Princes  Street,  Edinburgh, 
or  in  Sackville  Street,  Dublin,  or  in  Broadway,  New 
York,  or  in  the  main  thoroughfare  of  any  city  in 
Christendom,  I  should  have  gazed  upon  a  scene 
which  would  have  seemed  like  a  mere  reflection  of 
this  one.  And  then  I  asked  myself  for  an  interpre¬ 
tation  of  it  all.  What  did  it  all  mean — this  throng 
of  happy  pedestrians  laughing  and  chatting  as  they 
surged  along  the  pavements;  this  ceaseless  proces¬ 
sion  of  gay  vehicles  in  the  brilliantly-illumined  road¬ 
way? 

II 

It  is  a  tribute  to  our  human  passion  for  pretend¬ 
ing.  His  Excellency  stands  in  the  reception  hall  at 
Government  House  and  laughingly  welcomes  his 
guests.  They  are  pretenders,  every  one.  The 
troubadour  is  no  troubadour ;  the  viking,  no  viking ; 
the  gipsy,  no  gipsy;  and  the  milkmaid,  no  milkmaid. 
They  are  just  pretending  and  they  have  gone  to  all 


ii8  Rubble  and  Roseleaves 

this  trouble  and  to  all  this  expense  that  the  full- 
orbed  joy  of  pretending  may  be  for  one  crowded 
hour  their  own.  And  the  other  people — the  gentle¬ 
men  in  evening  dress;  the  ladies  richly  begowned 
and  bejewelled;  the  surging  crowd  upon  the  path. 
They  are  making  their  way  to  the  theatres.  They 
are  going  to  see  the  great  actors  and  actresses 
pretend.  One  actor  will  pretend  to  be  a  cripple 
and  another  will  pretend  to  be  a  king;  one  actress 
will  pretend  to  be  an  empress  and  one  will  pre¬ 
tend  to  be  a  slave;  and  the  better  the  actors  and 
the  actresses  pretend  the  better  these  people  will 
like  it. 

For  the  people  love  pretending;  that  is  how  the 
theatre  came  to  be.  Like  Topsy,  it  had  no  father 
and  no  mother.  It  sprang  from  our  insatiable 
fondness  for  make-believe.  In  his  Short  History  of 
the  English  People  John  Richard  Green  says  that  ‘it 
was  the  people  itself  that  created  the  stage’ ;  and  he 
graphically  describes  their  initial  ventures.  ‘The 
theatre/  he  says,  ‘was  the  courtyard  of  an  inn  or  a 
mere  booth  such  as  is  still  seen  at  a  country  fair; 
the  bulk  of  the  audience  sat  beneath  the  open  sky; 
a  few  covered  seats  accommodated  the  wealthier 
spectators  while  patrons  and  nobles  sprawled  upon 
the  actual  boards.’  In  those  days  the  audience  had 
to  do  its  part  of  the  pretending.  If  the  spectators 
saw  a  few  flowers  they  accepted  the  hint  and 
imagined  that  the  play  was  being  enacted  in  a 
beautiful  garden.  In  a  battle  scene  the  arrival  of 


The  Pretender 


119 

an  army  was  represented  by  a  stampede  across  the 
stage  of  a  dozen  clumsy  sceneshifters  brandishing 
swords  and  bucklers.  In  order  to  assist  the  audience 
to  muster  appropriate  emotions,  the  stage  was 
draped  with  black  when  a  tragedy  was  about  to  be 
presented  and  with  blue  when  the  performance  was 
to  portray  life  in  some  lighter  vein.  What  is  this 
but  a  group  of  children  playing  at  charades,  at  dress¬ 
ing-up,  at  ‘just  pretending?’  Children  pretend  in 
order  that  they  may  escape  from  the  limitations  of 
reality  into  the  infinitudes  of  romance.  Once  they 
begin  to  pretend  all  life  is  open  to  them.  They  have 
uttered  the  magic  ‘Sesame’  and  every  gate  unbars. 
Their  seniors  invade  the  same  realm  for  the  same 
reason.  This  is  the  significance  of  those  crowded 
streets  last  night. 

Ill 

Now  this  brings  me  to  a  very  interesting  point. 
Is  it  wrong  to  pretend?  In  the  greatest  sermon 
ever  preached — the  Sermon  on  the  Mount — ^Jesus 
called  certain  people  hypocrites.  But,  did  He,  by 
doing  so,  condemn  all  forms  of  hypocrisy?  If  so, 
the  people  upon  whom  I  looked  last  night  were 
all  of  them  earning  for  themselves  His  malediction. 
And  so  were  the  people  gathered  in  the  quaint  old 
English  courtyard.  And  so  was  Jean  when  she 
called  to  her  playmates :  ‘Let’s  pretend !’  And 
so  was  ‘the  old,  old,  old,  old  lady’  and  ‘the  boy 
with  the  twisted  knee.’  For  a  hypocrite — as  the 


120 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


very  word  isuggests — is  simply  a  pretender.  A 
hypocrite  is  one  who  colors  his  face,  or  dresses  up 
or  acts  a  part.  Does  it  follow,  therefore,  because 
Jesus  condemned  the  Pharisees  and  called  them 
hypocrites,  that  all  pretenders  fall  beneath  His 
frown?  To  ask  the  question  is  to  answer  it.  Fancy 
Jesus  frowning  at  Jean!  Fancy  Jesus  frowning 
at  'the  old,  old,  old,  old  lady’  and  'the  boy  with 
the  twisted  kneel’  Why,  Jesus  Himself  pretended 
on  occasions.  He  behaved  towards  the  Syro- 
Phoenician  woman  as  though  He  had  no  sympathy 
with  her  in  her  distress.  He  saw  the  disciples  in 
trouble  on  the  lake;  and,  walking  on  the  water. 
Fie  made  as  though  He  would  have  passed  them  by. 
When,  after  journeying  with  two  of  His  disciples  to 
Emmaus,  He  reached  the  door  of  their  home.  He 
made  as  though  He  would  have  gone  further!  'He 
made  as  though!’  'He  made  as  though!’  'He 
made  as  though!’  The  feints  of  Deity! 

Let  a  man  but  keep  his  eyes  wide  open  and  he 
will  see  some  very  lovable  hypocrites,  some  very 
amiable  pretenders,  in  the  course  of  a  day’s  march. 
I  have  been  reading  The  Butterfly  Man.  And  here 
in  the  early  part  of  the  book  is  a'  scene  in  which  a 
child  and  a  criminal  take  part.  Mary  Virginia 
shows  John  Flint  a  pasteboard  box.  It  contains 
a  dark-colored  and  rather  ugly  grey  moth  with  his 
wings  turned  down. 

'You  wouldn’t  think  him  pretty,  would  you?’ 
asked  the  child. 


The  Pretender 


121 


‘No/  replied  John  Flint  disappointedly,  ‘I 
shouldn’t !’ 

Mary  Virginia  smiled,  and,  picking  up  the  little 
moth,  held  his  body,  very  gently,  between  her  finger 
tips.  He  fluttered,  spreading  out  his  grey  wings; 
and  then  John  saw  the  beautiful  pansy-like  under¬ 
wings,  and  the  glorious  lower  pair  of  scarlet  velvet, 
barred  and  bordered  with  black. 

‘I  got  to  thinking,’  said  the  girl,  thoughtfully, 
lifting  her  clear  and  candid  eyes  to  John  Flint’s, 
‘I  got  to  thinking,  when  he  threw  aside  his  plain 
grey  cloak  and  showed  me  his  lovely  underwings, 
that  he’s  like  some  people.  You  couldn’t  be 
expected  to  know  what  was  underneath,  could  you  ? 
So  you  pass  them  by,  thinking  how  ordinary  and 
uninteresting  and  ugly  they  are,  and  you  feel  rather 
sorry  for  them — because  you  don’t  know.  But  if 
you  once  get  close  enough  to  touch  them — ^^why,  then 
you  find  out!  You  only  think  of  the  dust-colored 
outside,  and  all  the  while  the  underwings  are  right 
there,  waiting  for  you  to  find  them  1  Isn’t  it 
wonderful  and  beautiful?  And  the  best  of  it  all  is, 
it’s  true!’ 

In  these  artless  sentences,  tripping,  so  easily  from 
a  child’s  tongue,  Marie  Oemler  sums  up  the  burden 
of  her  book.  The  incident  is  a  parable.  For  John 
Flint  was  himself  the  drab  and  ugly  moth.  In  the 
opening  chapters  of  the  story,  he  is  a  horrible  object 
— course,  brutal,  loathsome,  revolting.  But  there 
were  underwings.  And  gradually,  beneath  the 


122 


Hubble  and  Roseleaves 


touch  of  gentle  influences,  those  underwings  became 
visible;  and,  in  the  later  stages  of  the  story,  all 
men  admired  and  revered  and  loved  the  beautiful 
nobleness  of  the  Butterfly  Man. 

IV 

There  are  people,  I  suppose,  who  trick  themselves 
out  to  make  themselves  appear  much  prettier  or 
much  nicer  or — ^worse  still — much  holier  than  they 
really  are.  ‘LeBs  pretend!’  they  cry;  and  there 
is  something  sinister  in  their  pretending.  It  is 
against  these  people — and  against  them  only — that 
the  anathemas  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  are 
directed. 

Again,  there  are  people  who,  like  Ian  Maclaren’s 
Drumtochty  folk,  go  through  life  dreading  lest  their 
underwings  should  be  seen,  their  virtues  exposed, 
their  goodness  discovered.  They  bear  themselves 
distantly  and  give  an  impression  of  aloofness;  you 
would  never  dream,  unless  you  got  to  know  them, 
that  their  dispositions  were  so  sweet,  their  char¬ 
acters  so  strong,  their  souls  so  saintly. 

I  am  told  that  a  great  actor  achieves  his  triumphs 
through  contemplating  so  closely  the  character  that 
he  impersonates.  His  own  individuality  becomes, 
for  the  time  being,  absorbed  in  another.  Henry 
Irving  forgets  that  he  is  Henry  Irving  and  believes 
himself  to  be  Macbeth.  I  have  read  of  One  who, 
seeming  to  possess  no  form  nor  comeliness,  nor  any 
beauty  that  men  should  desire  Him,  was  neverthe- 


The  Pretender 


123 


less  the  chiefest  among  ten  thousand  and  the  alto¬ 
gether  lovely.  It  may  be  that  these  amiable  pre¬ 
tenders  of  whom  we  are  all  so  fond  have  contem¬ 
plated  so  closely  His  character  that  they  have  uncon¬ 
sciously  caught  His  spirit  and  acquired  His  ways. 
They  cleverly  conceal  the  rainbow-tinted  under¬ 
wings  beneath  a  coat  of  drab;  but,  having  once 
caught  a  glimpse  of  their  glory,  we  ever  after  feel 
it  shining  through  the  grey. 


IV 


ACHMED’S  INVESTMENT 

I 

Gilt-edged  securities  are  all  very  well ;  but  men  do 
not  make  their  fortunes  out  of  gilt-edged  securities. 
Gilt-edged  securities  may  suit  those  whose  circum¬ 
stances  compel  them  to  husband  jealously  their 
meagre  savings ;  but  the  big  dividends  are  made  out 
of  the  risky  speculations.  There  are  investments 
in  which  a  man  cannot,  by  any  possibility,  lose  his 
treasure,  and  in  which  he  must,  with  mathematical 
certainty,  reap  a  modest  margin  of  profit.  And, 
on  the  other  hand,  there  are  investments  in  which 
a  man  may,  quite  easily,  lose  every  penny  that  he 
hazards,  but  in  which  he  may,  quite  conceivably, 
make  a  perfectly  golden  haul.  An  Eastern  sage  with 
a  well-established  reputation  for  wisdom  urges  us  to 
venture  fearlessly  at  times  upon  these  more  perilous 
but  more  profitable  ventures,  *Cast  thy  bread f  he 
says,  ^upon  the  waters/  The  man  who  believes  in 
gilt-edged  securities  will  prefer  to  cast  it  upon  the 
land.  The  land  is  a  fixture.  The  land  does  not 
float  away  or  fly  away  or  fade  away.  You  find  it 
where  you  left  it.  It  is  stable,  substantial,  secure. 
Because  of  its  fixity,  men  trust  it.  For  thousands 
of  years  it  was  the  bank  of  the  nations.  Men  hid 


124 


Achmed’s  Investment 


125 


their  treasures  in  fields,  as  many  a  lucky  finder 
afterwards  discovered  to  his  delight.  But  the 
waters!  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters!  The 
waters  are  the  very  emblem  of  all  that  is  fickle,  vari¬ 
able  and  inconstant.  They  ebb  and  they  flow ;  they 
risd  and  they  fall ;  they  are  restless,  unstable, 
fluctuating.  They  suck  down  into  their  dark  depths 
the  treasures  confided  to  their  care  and  leave  no 
trace  upon  the  surface  of  the  hiding-place  in  which 
the  booty  lies  concealed.  The  waters!  Cast  thy 
bread  upon  the  waters!  The  man  who  believes  only 
in  gilt-edged  securities  shakes  his  head.  This  is  no 
investment  for  him.  But  the  man  who  can  afford 
to  take  desperate  hazards  pricks  up  his  ears. 

‘The  waters!’  he  exclaims.  ‘He  tells  me  to  cast 
my  bread  upon  the  waters  !  It  is  the  last  place  in 
the  world  to  which  I  should  have  thought  of  casting 
it !  But  I  shall  venture !’ 

And  he  becomes  immensely  rich  in  consequence. 

II 

Achmed  Ali  is  a  young  Egyptian  farmer.  His 
lands  are  in  the  Nile  Valley,  and,  in  the  flood-time, 
two  thirds  of  his  property  is  under  water.  But  flood¬ 
time  is  also  sowing-time,  and  what  is  he  to  do? 
He  can,  of  course,  sow  that  portion  of  his  land  that 
stands  above  the  waterline.  And  he  does:  This 
is  his  gilt-edged  security.  He  is  practically  certain 
of  getting  back  in  the  late  summer  the  grain  that 
he  sows  in  the  spring,  with  a  fair  proportion  of 


126 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


increase  in  addition.  But  on  that  narrow  margin 
of  profit  Achmed  Ali  cannot  support  wife  and  chil¬ 
dren  and  pay  all  the  expenses  of  his  farm.  He 
turns  wistfully  towards  the  river.  He  surveys  the 
section  of  his  farm  over  which  the  waters  are 
sluggishly  drifting.  Sometimes  they  recede,  leav¬ 
ing  a  broad  strip  of  shining,  gurgling  mud.  He  is 
tempted  to  scatter  his  seed  over  that  belt  of  ooze  at 
once.  He  waits  a  few  hours,  however,  hoping  that 
the  retreat  of  the  waters  will  continue,  and  that,  in 
a  few  days,  he  will  be  able  to  carry  his  seed-basket 
over  the  whole  area  that  is  now  submerged.  But  his 
hopes  are  soon  shattered.  The  swaying  waters  come 
welling  in  again  and  even  lick  the  edges  of  the  land 
he  has  already  sown.  If  only  he  could  get  at  those 
inundated  fields!  The  land  is  soft  and  moist!  It 
has  been  enriched  and  fertilized  by  the  action  of  the 
flood-waters.  Saturated  by  the  moisture  in  the 
soil,  and  warmed  by  the  rays  of  the  tropical  sun,  the 
seed  would  germinate  and  spring  up  as  if  by  magic; 
and  the  harvest  would  beggar  that  of  the  land  that 
the  river  has  never  touched !  But  these  are  castles 
in  the  air.  The  flood  is  there.  It  shows  no  sign 
of  withdrawing.  He  knows  that,  after  it  has  gone, 
it  will  be  a  day  or  two  before  he  can  cross  the  soft, 
sticky,  slimy  soil  with  his  basket.  And  by  that 
time  the  season  may  have  passed.  It  will  be  too 
late  to  sow. 

It  is  to  Achmed  Ali  that  our  Eastern  sage  is 
speaking.  ‘Why  wait  for  the  flood  ?’  he  asks.  *Cast 


Achmed’s  Investment 


127 


thy  bread  upon  the  waters!  Much  good  grain — 
grain  that  thou  canst  ill  afford  to  lose^ — will  float 
away  and  never  more  be  seen.  Much  of  it  will  be 
greedily  devoured  by  fish  and  water-fowl.  But 
what  of  that?  Much  of  it  will  drift  about  on  the 
shallow  waters,  and  be  deposited,  as  they  recede,  on 
the  soft  warm  mud  from  which  they  ebb.  With  thy 
heavy  feet  and  clumsy  form  and  weighty  basket  thou 
couldst  not  cross  the  soil  till  long  after  the  waters 
leave  it.  Let  the  waters  do  their  work  for  thee! 
Turn  thy  foe  into  a  friend!  Make  of  the  tyrant  a 
slave!  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters!* 

It  is  no  gilt-edged  security;  but  Achmed  Ali  re¬ 
solves  to  take  the  risk. 

Among  the  reeds  round  the  bend  of  the  river  his 
flat-bottomed  boat  is  moored.  He  hurries  up  to  the 
barn  for  his  basket  of  seed.  He  gazes,  almost 
fondly.  Upon  the  precious  grain  that  he  is  about  to 
invest  in  such  a  precarious  speculation.  He  bears 
it  down  to  the  boat  and  pushes  out  on  to  the  shallow 
waters.  A  tall  ibis,  stalking  with  stately  stride  along 
the  edge  of  the  stream,  is  startled  by  the  commotion 
and  flies  away,  flapping  its  wings  with  slow  and 
measured  beat.  Achmed  is  now  well  out  upon  the 
river.  The  flood  that  had  defied  him  now  supports 
him.  He  feels  as  the  Philistines  must  have  felt 
when  they  harnessed  Samson  to  their  mill.  He 
paddles  up  to  one  end  of  his  property  and  works  his 
way  down  to  the  other,  scattering  the  seed  broad¬ 
cast  as  he  goes.  Then,  having  disposed  of  every 


128 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


grain,  he  paddles  back  to  his  starting-point  and  ties 
up  his  boat.  He  stands  for  a  moment  on  the  bank 
watching  the  seed  floating  hither  and  thither  upon 
the  eddying  waters.  In  some  places  it  is  still  strewn 
evenly  upon  the  tide;  in  others  it  has  drifted  into 
snakelike  formations  that  curl  and  straighten  them¬ 
selves  out  again  on  the  surface  of  the  flood.  It 
seems  an  awful  waste.  But  is  it? 

In  a  day  or  two  the  waters  recede,  leaving  the 
saturated  seed  strewn  over  the  oozy  soil.  It  sinks 
in  of  its  own  weight  and  is  quickly  lost  to  view. 
And  then  Achmed  sees  the  wisdom  of  the  counsel 
he  has  followed.  And  in  the  summer,  when  he 
garners  a  rich  harvest  from  the  very  lands  over 
which  his  boat  had  drifted,  he  blesses  that  Eastern 
sage  for  those  wise  words. 

Ill 

In  my  old  Mosgiel  days,  I  was  often  invited  to 
address  evening  meetings  in  Dunedin.  The  trouble 
lay  in  the  return.  A  train  left  Dunedin  at  twenty 
past  nine  and  there  was  no  other  until  twenty  past 
ten,  or,  on  some  nights,  twenty  past  eleven.  It 
was  sometimes  difficult  to  leave  a  meeting  in  time 
to  catch  the  first  of  these  trains,  yet,  if  I  stayed  for 
a  later  one,  it  meant  a  midnight  arrival  at  the  manse 
and  a  woeful  sense  of  weariness  next  morning.  On 
the  particular  night  of  which  I  am  now  thinking, 
I  missed  the  early  train.  There  was  no  other  until 
twenty  past  eleven.  I  sat  on  the  railway  platform, 


Achmed’s  Investment 


129 


feeling  very  sorry  for  myself.  When  at  length  the 
train  started,  I  found  myself  sharing  with  one  com¬ 
panion  a  long  compartment,  with  doors  at  either 
extremity  and  seats  along  the  sides,  capable  of  ac¬ 
commodating  fifty  people.  He  sat  at  one  end  and  I 
at  the  other.  I  expect  that  I  looked  to  him  as  woe¬ 
begone  and  disconsolate  as  he  looked  to  me.  The 
train  rumbled  on  through  the  night.  The  light  was 
too  dim  to  permit  of  reading;  the  jolting  was  too 
great  to  permit  of  sleeping;  and  I  was  just  about  to 
record  a  solemn  vow  never  to  speak  in  town  again 
when  a  curious  line  of  thought  captivated  me.  I 
could  not  read;  I  could  not  sleep;  but  I  could  talk! 
And  here,  in  the  far  corner  of  the  compartment, 
was  another  belated  unfortunate  who  could  neither 
read  nor  sleep  and  who  might  like  to  beguile  the 
time  with  conversation!  And  then  it  occurred  to 
me  not  only  that  I  could  do  it  but  that  I  should  do  it. 
We  had  been  thrown  together  for  an  hour  in  this 
strange  way  at  dead  of  night;  we  should  probably 
never  meet  again  until  the  Day  of  Judgement;  what 
right  had  I  to  let  him  go  as  though  our  tracks  had 
never  crossed  at  all  ?  Was  the  great  message  that, 
on  Sundays,  I  delivered  to  my  Mosgiel  people,  in¬ 
tended  exclusively  for  them,  and  was  it  only  to  be 
delivered  on  Sundays?  I  felt  that  my  Sunday  con¬ 
gregation  was  a  gilt-edged  security;  but  here  was  a 
chance  for  a  rash  speculation ! 

The  train  stopped  at  Burnside.  I  stepped  out  on 
to  the  station  and  walked  up  and  down  for  a  moment 


130 


Bubble  and  Roseleaves 


inhaling  the  fresh  mountain  air.  I  wanted  to  have 
all  my  wits  about  me  and  to  be  at  my  best.  The 
engine  whistled,  and,  on  returning  to  the  compart¬ 
ment,  I  was  careful  to  re-enter  it  by  the  door  near 
which  my  companion  was  sitting,  and  I  took  the  seat 
immediately  opposite  to  him.  I  then  saw  that  he 
was  quite  a  young  fellow,  probably  a  farmer’s  son. 
We  soon  struck  up  a  pleasant  conversation,  and  then, 
having  created  an  atmosphere,  I  expressed  the  hope 
that  we  were  fellow-travellers  on  life’s  greater 
journey. 

Tt’s  strange  that  you  should  ask  me  that,’  he  said, 
T’ve  been  thinking  a  lot  about  such  things  lately.’ 

We  became  so  engrossed  in  our  conversation  that 
the  train  had  been  standing  a  minute  or  so  at 
Mosgiel  before  we  realized  that  we  had  reached  the 
end  of  our  journey.  I  found  that  our  ways  took  us 
in  diametrically  opposite  directions.  He  had  a  long 
walk  ahead  of  him. 

‘Well,’  I  said,  in  taking  farewell  of  him,  ‘you 
may  see  your  way  to  a  decision  as  you  walk  along 
the  road.  If  so,  remember  that  you  need  no  one 
to  help  you.  Lift  up  your  heart  to  the  Saviour; 
He  will  understand !’ 

We  parted  with  a  warm  handclasp.  Long  before 
I  reached  the  manse  I  was  biting  my  lips  at  having 
omitted  to  take  his  name  and  address.  However, 
like  Achmed  Ali,  I  had  cast  my  bread  upon  the 
waters. 

Five  years  passed.  One  Monday  morning  I 


Achmed’s  Investment 


131 


was  seated  in  the  train  for  Dunedin.  The  corn- 
partment  was  nearly  full.  Between  Abbotsford 
and  Burnside  the  door  at  one  end  of  the  carriage 
opened,  and  a  tall,  dark  man  came  through,  hand¬ 
ing  each  passenger  a  neat  little  pamphlet.  He 
gave  me  a  copy  of  Safety,  Certainty,  and  Enjoy¬ 
ment.  I  looked  up  to  thank  him,  and,  as  our  eyes 
met,  he  recognized  me. 

Why,’  he  exclaimed,  ‘you’re  the  very  man!’ 

I  made  room  for  him  to  sit  beside  me.  I  told 
him  that  his  face  seemed  familiar,  although  I  could 
not  remember  where  we  had  met  before. 

‘Why,’  he  said,  ‘don’t  you  remember  that  night 
in  the  train?  You  told  me,  if  I  saw  my  way  to  a 
decision,  to  lift  up  my  heart  to  the  Saviour  on  the 
road.  And  I  did.  I’ve  felt  sorry  ever  since  that 
I  didn’t  ask  who  you  were,  so  that  I  could  come  and 
tell  you.  But,  as  the  light  came  to  me  in  a  railway 
train,  I  have  always  tried  to  do  as  much  good  as 
possible  when  I  have  had  occasion  to  travel.  I 
can’t  speak  to  people  as  you  spoke  to  me;  but  I 
always  bring  a  packet  of  booklets  with  me.’ 

I  recalled  the  inward  struggle  that  preceded  my 
approach  that  night.  I  remembered  bracing  myself 
on  the  Burnside  station  for  the  ordeal.  It  seemed 
at  the  time  a  very  rash  and  risky  speculation. 

But  here  was  my  harvest !  I  have  invested  most 
of  my  time  and  energy  in  gilt-edged  securities,  and, 
on  the  whole,  I  have  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied  with 
the  return  that  they  have  yielded  me.  But  I  have 


132 


Rubble  and  Eoseleaves 


seldom  obtained  from  my  gilt-edged  securities  so 
handsome  a  profit  as  that  unpromising  venture  ulti¬ 
mately  brought  to  me. 


IV 

The  only  way  to  keep  a  thing  is  to  throw  it  away. 
The  only  way  to  hold  your  money  is  to  invest  it. 
The  only  way  to  ensure  remembering  a  poem  is  to 
keep  repeating  it  to  others.  If  you  hear  a  good 
story  and  attempt  to  keep  it  for  your  own  delecta¬ 
tion,  you  will  forget  it  in  a  week.  Laugh  over  it 
with  every  man  you  meet  and  it  will  ripple  in 
your  soul  for  years. 

It  sometimes  happens,  when  I  have  finished  one 
of  these  screeds  of  mine,  that  I  feel  a  fatherly 
solicitude  concerning  it.  You  sometimes  grow  fond 
of  a  thing,  not  because  you  cherish  an  inflated  con¬ 
ception  of  its  value,  but  because  through  sheer 
familiarity,  it  has  become  a  part  of  you.  So  I  look 
at  these  white  sheets  over  which  I  have  been  bend¬ 
ing  for  days  and  into  which  I  have  poured  all  my 
soul.  I  feel  anxious  about  them.  Yet  it  is  absurd 
to  keep  them.  If  I  store  them  away  I  shall  soon  for¬ 
get  their  contents  and  my  labor  will  all  be  lost. 
But  the  printer  is  six  hundred  miles  away.  I  think 
of  all  the  hands  through  which  they  must  pass  on 
their  way  from  me  to  him.  I  register  them  at  the 
Post  Office,  but  still  I  think  of  all  the  risks.  These 
white  sheets  of  mine  are  such  frail  and  flimsy 
things;  an  accident,  a  fire,  and  where  then  would 


Achmed’s  Investment 


133 


they  be  ?  But  one  happy  morning  I  see  my  screed  in 
print !  I  feel  that  I  have  it  at  last !.  It  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  fire  or  accident.  If  this  house  is  burned 
down,  I  can  obtain  a  copy  in  that  one !  I  feel  that 
nothing  now  can  rob  me  of  the  child  I  brought  into 
being.  It  is  scattered  broadcast,  and,  having  been 
scattered  broadcast,  is  at  last  my  very,  very  own ! 

The  only  way  to  keep  a  thing  is  to  throw  it  away. 
Achmed  Ali  knows  that.  He  looks  fondly  at  the 
grain  in  the  basket  but  he  knows  that  he  cannot 
keep  it  in  the  barn.  ‘Seeds  which  mildew  in  the 
garner,  scattered,  fill  with  gold  the  plain.’  And  so 
he  casts  some  of  it  on  the  land — ^his  gilt-edged 
security — and  gets  it  back  with  interest;  and  he  casts 
the  rest  upon  the  water — his  risky  speculation — and 
gets  it  back  many  times  multiplied. 


V 


SATURDAY 

Saturday  is  the  name,  not  so  much  of  a  day,  as 
of  a  specific  phase  of  human  experience.  And  it 
is  a  great  phase.  We  all  catch  ourselves  at  odd 
moments  living  over  again  some  of  the  unforgettable 
Saturdays  of  long  ago.  In  actual  fact,  a  man  may 
be  lounging  in  an  armchair  beside  his  winter  fire  or 
sprawling  on  the  lawn  on  a  drowsy  summer  after¬ 
noon.  But,  under  such  conditions,  the  actual  fact 
is  soon  relegated  to  oblivion.  A  far-away  look 
comes  into  his  eyes,  a  wayward  smile  flits  over  his 
face,  and,  giving  rein  to  his  fancy,  he  sees  land¬ 
scapes  on  which  his  gaze  has  not  rested  for  many  a 
long  year.  He  roams  at  will  among  the  golden 
Saturdays  of  auld  lang  syne.  He  feels  afresh  the 
mighty  thrill  that  swept  his  soul  when,  after  a  long 
heroic  struggle,  his  side  won  that  famous  match 
upon  a  certain  village  green ;  he  lives  again  through 
the  fierce  excitement  of  a  paper-chase  that  led  the 
hare  and  hounds  over  the  great  green  hills  and 
down  through  the  dark  pine  forest  in  the  valley; 
he  enjoys  once  more  the  birds’-nesting  expedition  in 
the  winding  lane ;  and  he  sees,  as  vividly  as  he  saw 
them  at  the  time,  the  shining  trophies  that  rewarded 
his  fishing  excursions  to  the  millponds  and  trout- 

134 


Saturday 


135 


streams  of  the  outlying  countryside.  In  those  far- 
off  days,  Saturday  was  the  wild  romance  of  the 
week. 

I  remember  being  told  by  my  first  schoolmaster 
that  Saturday  was  named  after  Saturn,  and  that 
Saturn  was  the  planet  that  had  rings  all  round  it. 
From  that  hour,  by  a  singular  confusion  of  ideas, 
I  always  thought  of  Saturday  as  the  day  that  had 
the  rings  round  it.  I  somehow  associated  the  day 
with  the  lady  of  the  nursery  rhyme  who  has  rings 
on  her  fingers  and  bells  on  her  toes,  and  who,  there¬ 
fore,  has  music  wherever  she  goes.  I  liked  to  think 
that  Saturday  moved  among  the  other  days  of  the 
week  in  such  melodious  pomp  and  splendor.  The 
notion  intensified  the  zest  with  which  I  welcomed 
the  great  day.  For  Saturday  was  great ;  it  was  great 
in  its  coming  and  great  in  its  going.  It  began 
gloriously  and  it  ended  gloriously.  I  do  not  mean 
that  it  ended  as  it  began.  By  no  means.  There  is 
one  glory  of  the  sun  and  another  glory  of  the  moon. 
The  glory  of  Saturday’s  dawn  was  one  glory;  the 
glory  of  Saturday’s  dusk  was  another  glory.  Satur¬ 
day  began  like  a  Red  Indian  shouting  his  war-whoop 
as  he  takes  to  the  trail ;  it  ended  like  a  monk  who,  in 
the  stillness  of  his  cloister,  chants  his  evening  hymn. 

It  takes  a  boy  a  minute  or  two,  on  waking,  to 
assure  himself  that  it  is  really  Saturday.  He  is  not 
quite  sure  of  himself ;  the  notion  seems  too  good  to 
be  true.  He  sits  bolt  upright;  rubs  his  eyes;  and 
stares  about  him  for  some  confirmation  of  the 


136 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


joyous  suspicion  that  is  bringing  the  blood  to  his 
cheeks  in  excitement.  Is  it  really  Saturday?  He 
distrusts — and  not  without  cause — the  confused 
sensations  of  those  waking  moments.  He  made  a 
mistake  once  before;  he  fancied  that  it  was  Satur¬ 
day;  made  all  his  plans  accordingly;  and  discovered 
to  his  disgust  a  few  minutes  later  that  it  was  only 
Friday  after  all.  That  Friday,  at  any  rate,  was  a 
most  unlucky  day !  But  Saturday !  With  what 
tingling  exhilaration  and  boisterous  delight  the  con¬ 
viction  that  it  was  Saturday  fastened  upon  us! 
Saturday  was  our  day!  We  raced  out  after  break¬ 
fast  like  so  many  colts  turned  loose  upon  the  heath. 
We  tossed  up  our  caps  for  the  sheer  joy  of  it. 
Whatever  the  ordeals  of  the  week  had  been,  we  for¬ 
gave  all  our  tyrants  and  tormentors  on  Saturday 
morning.  And  in  that  gracious  and  benignant  abso¬ 
lution  we  experienced  a  foretaste  of  the  saintliness 
with  which  the  great  day  wore  to  its  close. 

For  Saturday,  however  spent,  reached  its  climax 
in  a  consciousness  of  virtue  so  complete  and  so 
serene  and  so  beatific  as  to  be  almost  unearthly. 
Such  a  delicious  content  seldom  falls  within  the 
experience  of  mortals.  Saturday  night  was  bath- 
night;  and  few  sensations  in  life  are  more  delectable 
than  the  angelic  self-satisfaction  that  overtakes  the 
average  boy  after  having  been  subjected  to  the 
magic  discipline  of  hot  water  and  clean  sheets.  The 
outward  change  is  wonderful ;  but  the  inward  trans¬ 
formation  exceeds  it  by  far.  He  feels  good;  looks 


Saturday 


137 


good ;  smells  good ;  is  good.  A  boy  after  a  bath  is 
at  peace  with  all  the  world.  The  week  may  have 
gone  hardly  with  him.  Parents  and  teachers  may 
have  shown  a  vexatious  incapacity  to  see  things 
from  a  boy’s  standpoint;  the  proprietors  of  orchards 
and  gardens  may  have  exhibited — perhaps  even  on 
Saturday  afternoon — a  singular  inflexibility  in  their 
interpretation  of  the  laws  relating  to  property;  the 
world  as  a  whole  may  have  behaved  in  a  manner 
wofully  inconsiderate  and  unjust.  But  on  Saturday 
night,  under  the  softening  influence  of  a  hot  bath 
and  a  clean  bed,  a  boy  finds  it  in  his  heart  to  forgive 
everything  and  everybody.  A  vast  charity  wells  up 
in  his  soul.  As  he  lays  his  damp  head  on  his  snowy 
pillow,  he  revokes  all  his  harsh  judgements  and 
cancels  all  his  stern  resolves.  He  will  not  run  away 
from  home  after  all !  Instead  of  abandoning  his  un¬ 
feeling  seniors  to  their  hatred,  malice  and  un¬ 
charitableness,  he  will  treat  them  with  magnanimity 
and  tolerance;  he  will  give  them  another  chance. 
It  is  possible — appearances  to  the  contrary  notwith¬ 
standing — that  they  do  not  mean  to  be  unsym¬ 
pathetic.  They  simply  do  not  understand.  Think¬ 
ing  thus  the  young  saint  falls  asleep  in  the  odor  of 
sanctity — and  soap !  The  more  wayward  and 
troublesome  he  has  been  in  the  daytime,  the  more 
angelic  will  he  appear  under  these  new  conditions. 
Watching  him  as  he  slumbers,  one  of  the  Saturnian 
rings  seems  to  encompass  his  brow  like  a  halo. 
Saturday  has  come  to  an  end  I 


138  Rubble  and  Roseleaves 

Now,  this  saintly  young  savage  of  ours  will  learn, 
as  the  years  go  by,  that  life  itself  has  its  Saturday 
phase.  Dr.  Chalmers  used  to  say  that  our  allotted 
span  of  three  score  years  and  ten  divides  itself  into 
seven  decades  corresponding  with  the  seven  days 
of  the  week.  The  seventh — the  stretch  of  life  that 
opens  out  before  a  man  on  his  sixtieth  birthday — 

is,  the  doctor  used  to  say,  a  Sabbatic  period.  In 

it,  he  should  shake  himself  free,  as  far  as  possible, 
from  the  toil  and  moil  of  life,  and  give  himself  to  the 
cultivation  of  a  quiet  and  restful  spirit.  That  being 
so,  it  follows  that  the  sixth  period — the  period  that 
opens  out  before  a  man  on  his  fiftieth  birthday — 
is  the  Saturday  of  life.  It  is  a  great  time,  every 
way.  Like  the  Saturday  of  the  old  days,  and  like 
the  Saturday  of  riper  years,  it  has  characteristics 
peculiarly  its  own.  On  his  fiftieth  birthday,  if 
Mr.  J.  W.  Robertson  Scott  is  to  be  believed,  a  man 
enters  the  gates  of  a  new  world.  It  is  not  of  neces¬ 
sity  a  better  world  or  a  worse  one;  it  is  simply  a 
different  one.  We  seldom  enter  upon  a  new  experi¬ 
ence  without  finding  that  the  change  has  involved 
us  in  a  few  drawbacks  and  deprivations,  as  well  as 
in  some  distinct  benefits  and  advantages.  The  step 
that  a  man  takes  on  his  fiftieth  birthday  is  no  excep¬ 
tion  to  this  rule.  Mr.  Robertson  Scott  caught  sight 
of  the  gates  of  the  new  era  some  time  before  he 
actually  reached  them.  Tn  the  tram,  one  evening, 
about  six  months  ago,  a  schoolboy  rose  and  offered 
me  his  seat,’  he  tells  us.  The  incident  startled  him. 


Saturday  139 

A  man  who  is  still  in  the  forties  does  not  expect  to 
receive  such  courtesies.  He  consoled  himself,  how¬ 
ever,  with  the  assumption  that  the  attentive  school¬ 
boy  was  probably  a  boy  scout  who  had  suddenly 
realized  that  the  day  was  closing  in  without  his 
having  done  the  good  deed  prescribed  for  each 
twenty-four  hours  of  the  life  of  the  perfect  Baden- 
Powellite.  Four  months  later,  however,  the  same 
thing  happened  again;  and  then,  shortly  after, 
came  the  fiftieth  birthday !  Clearly  it  was  Saturday 
morning ! 

Now,  the  striking  thing  about  Mr.  Robertson 
Scott’s  experience  is  the  fact  that  his  attainment 
of  his  jubilee  appealed  to  him,  not  as  an  end,  but 
as  a  beginning.  It  was  not  so  much  a  premonition 
of  senility  and  decay  as  the  entrance  upon  a  fresh 
phase  of  life.  When  Horace  Walpole  wrote  to 
Thomas  Gray  in  1766,  urging  him  to  write  more 
poetry.  Gray  replied  that  when  a  man  has  turned 
fifty — as  he  had  just  done — there  is  nothing  for 
it  but  to  think  of  finishing.  He  voiced  the  feeling 
of  the  period.  In  the  eighteenth  century,  a  man 
of  fifty  was  classified  among  the  veterans.  A 
hundred  years  later,  a  very  different  conviction 
held  the  field.  Tolstoy  tells  us  that  his  fiftieth  year 
was  the  year  of  his  greatest  awakening  and  en¬ 
lightenment;  and,  in  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast 
Table,  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  makes  the  old 
master  witness  to  something  of  a  similar  kind.  His 
friends  are  anxious  to  know  how  and  when  he  ac- 


140 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


qtiired  his  wealth  of  wisdom;  and  he  is  able  to  reply 
with  remarkable  precision :  ‘It  was  on  the  morning 
of  my  fiftieth  birthday  that  the  solution  of  life’s 
great  problem  came  to  me.  It  took  me  just  fifty 
years  to  find  my  place  in  the  Eternal  Order  of 
Things.’  Such  testimonies  go  a  long  way  towards 
vindicating  Mr.  Robertson  Scott’s  assumption  that 
the  fiftieth  birthday  marks  rather  a  new  beginning 
than  a  sad,  regretful  close.  The  fiftieth  birthday  is 
Saturday  morning;  and  who,  on  Saturday  morning, 
feels  that  the  week  is  over? 

On  the  contrary,  Saturday  morning  is,  to  most 
people,  more  insistent  than  any  other  morning 
in  its  demands  upon  their  energies.  Walk  up  the 
street  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  and  you  will  see 
your  neighbors  garbed  and  employed  as  they  are 
never  garbed  or  employed  on  any  other  day.  On 
Saturday  we  weed  the  garden,  mow  the  lawn  and 
effect  the  week’s  repairs.  On  Saturday  we  attend 
to  a  multitude  of  minor  matters  for  which  we  have 
had  no  time  during  the  week.  On  Saturday  we 
clear  up.  And  on  Saturday  night  we  are  tired. 
It  by  no  means  follows,  therefore,  that,  because  a 
man’s  fiftieth  birthday  is  his  Saturday  morning, 
his  week’s  work  is  done.  It  is  indisputable,  of 
course,  that  a  man  of  fifty  has  left  the  greater  part 
of  life  behind  him;  he  may  be  pardoned  if  he  pauses 
at  times  to  take  long  and  wistful  glances  along  the 
road  that  he  has  trodden;  it  will  not  be  considered 
strange  if,  on  very  slight  provocation,  he  drops  into 


Saturday 


141 

a  rapture  of  reminiscence.  There  is  a  subtle  stage 
in  the  development  of  fruit  at  which,  having  attained 
its  full  size,  it  ripens  rapidly.  A  man  enters  upon 
that  stage  on  his  fiftieth  birthday.  A  shrewd 
observer  has  said  that,  like  peaches  and  pears,  we 
grow  sweet  for  awhile  before  we  begin  to  decay. 
The  Saturday  of  life  is  sweetening  time.  We  be¬ 
come  less  harsh  in  our  criticisms,  less  overbearing  in 
our  opinions,  more  considerate  towards  our  contem¬ 
poraries  and  more  sympathetic  towards  our  juniors. 
The  week’s  work  is  by  no  means  finished.  Much 
remains  to  be  done.  But  it  will  be  done  in  a  new 
spirit — a  Saturday  spirit.  And  if  the  man  of  fifty 
be  spared  to  enjoy  octogenarian  honors,  he  will 
smile  as  he  recalls  the  immaturity  and  unripeness 
of  life’s  first  five  decades.  It  is  a  poor  week  that 
has  no  Saturday  and  no  Sunday  in  it.  To  have 
finished  at  fifty,  an  old  man  will  tell  you,  would 
have  meant  missing  the  best. 

It  has  often  struck  me  as  an  impressive  coin¬ 
cidence  that  it  was  when  Dr.  Johnson  was  approach¬ 
ing  his  fiftieth  birthday — life’s  Saturday  morning — 
that  he  discovered  a  significance  in  Saturday  that, 
until  then,  had  eluded  him.  He  felt,  as  we  all  feel 
on  Saturdays,  that  the  time  had  come  to  clear  up, 
to  put  things  in  their  places  and  to  overtake 
neglected  tasks.  And  this  is  the  entry  he  makes  in 
his  Journal : 

‘Having  lived,  not  without  an  habitual  reverence 
for  the  Sabbath,  yet  without  that  attention  to  its 


142 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


religious  duties  which  Christianity  requires :  I 
resolve  henceforth — First,  to  rise  early  on  Sabbath 
morning,  and,  in  order  to  that,  to  go  to  sleep  early 
on  Saturday  night.  Second,  to  use  some  more  than 
ordinary  devotion  as  soon  as  I  rise.  Third,  to 
examine  into  the  tenor  of  my  life,  and  particularly 
the  last  week,  and  to  mark  my  advances  in  religion, 
or  my  recessions  from  it.  Fourth,  to  read  the 
Scriptures  methodically,  with  such  helps  as  are  at 
hand.  Fifth,  to  go  to  church  twice.  Sixth,  to 
read  books  of  divinity,  either  speculative  or  prac¬ 
tical.  Seventh,  to  instruct  my  family.  Eighth,  to 
wear  off  by  meditation  any  worldly  soil  contracted 
in  the  week.’ 

The  significance  of  this  heroic  record  lies  in  the 
resolve  that  Saturday,  so  far  from  unfitting  him 
for  Sunday,  shall  lead  up  to  it  as  a  stately  avenue 
leads  up  to  a  noble  entrance-hall.  T  resolve  to  go 
to  sleep  early  on  Saturday  night.’  Exactly  a 
hundred  years  after  the  great  doctor  had  inscribed 
this  famous  entry  on  the  pages  of  his  Journal, 
Charlotte  Elliott  wrote  her  well-known  hymn  in 
praise  of  Saturday: 

Before  the  Majesty  of  heaven 
To-morrow  we  appear; 

No  honor  half  so  great  is  given 
Throughout  man’s  sojourn  here. 

The  altar  must  be  cleansed  to-day, 

Meet  for  the  offered  lamb ; 

The  wood  in  order  we  must  lay, 

And  wait  to-morrow’s  flame. 


Saturday 


H3 

I  have  heard  scores  of  sermons  on  The  Proper 
Observance  of  Sunday;  and,  somehow,  I  have  never 
been  impressed  by  their  utility.  One  of  these  days 
some  pulpit  genius  will  preach  on  The  Proper 
Observance  of  Saturday,  and  then,  quite  conceiv¬ 
ably,  the  new  day  will  dawn. 

As  I  lay  down  my  pen,  a  pair  of  experiences  rush 
back  upon  my  mind.  The  one  befell  me  at  sea, 
the  other  on  land. 

1.  In  the  course  of  a  voyage  from  New  Zealand 
to  England  it  became  necessary — in  order  to 
harmonize  the  clocks  and  calendars  on  board 
with  the  clocks  and  calendars  ashore — to  take 
in  an  extra  day.  We  awoke  one  morning 
and  it  was  Saturday;  we  awoke  next  morning 
and  it  was  Saturday  again!  That  second  Satur¬ 
day  was  the  strangest  day  that  I  have  ever 
spent.  I  never  realized  the  extent  to  which 
Saturday  leads  up  to  Sunday  as  I  realized  it 
that  day. 

2.  I  once  numbered  among  my  intimate  friends 
a  Jewish  rabbi.  I  found  his  society  extremely 
delightful  and  wonderfully  instructive.  He  often 
took  me  to  his  synagogue,  showed  me  its  treasures, 
and  initiated  me  into  its  mysteries.  It  was  all  very 
beautiful  and  very  suggestive.  But  I  invariably 
came  away  feeling  dissatisfied  and  disappointed. 
I  had  been  gazing  upon  the  emblems  and  symbols 
of  a  Saturday  faith.  Like  that  weird  Saturday  on 
board  the  Tongariro,  it  was  a  Saturday  that  led  to 


144 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


a  Saturday,  a  Saturday  that  ushered  in  nothing 
holier  or  sweeter  than  itself. 

Saturn  with  all  his  rings  is  grand;  but  the  Sun 
is  grander  still!  It  is  from  the  Sun  that  Saturn 
derives  his  brightness  and  his  glory.  Ask  Saturn 
the  secret  of  his  splendor,  and  it  is  to  the  Sun  that 
he  unhesitatingly  points.  As  it  is  with  these  mighty 
orbs  themselves,  so  is  it  with  the  days  that  bear 
their  names.  As  Samuel  Johnson  and  Charlotte 
Elliott  knew  so  well,  it  is  the  glory  of  Saturday  to 
prepare  the  way  for  Sunday.  Saturday  belongs  to 
the  Order  of  St.  John  the  Baptist.  John  was  the 
greatest  of  all  the  sons  of  men,  yet  it  was  his  mission 
to  clear  the  path  for  the  coming  of  a  greater.  The 
old  world^s  Saturday-Sabbath,  commemorating  a 
completed  Creation,  led  up  to  the  new  world^s 
Sunday-Sabbath,  commemorating  a  completed 
Redemption.  The  oracles  and  mysteries  that  I 
saw  in  the  synagogue,  the  emblems  and  expres¬ 
sions  of  a  Saturday  faith,  were  sublime.  But  their 
sublimity  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  pointed  men  to, 
and  prepared  men  for,  a  Sunday  faith,  a  faith  that 
gathers  about  a  wondrous  Cross  and  an  empty  tomb, 
a  faith  from  which  that  Saturday  faith,  like  Saturn 
bathed  in  sunlight,  derives  alike  its  lustre  and  its 
fame. 


VI 


THE  CHIMES 

It  was  Christmas  Eve — an  Australian  Christmas 
Eve.  To  an  Englishman  it  must  always  seem  a 
weird,  uncanny  hotch-potch.  He  never  grows 
accustomed  to  the  scorching  Christmases  that  come 
to  him  beneath  the  Southern  Cross.  Southey  once 
declared  that,  however  long  a  man  lives,  the  first 
twenty  years  of  his  life  will  always  represent  the 
biggest  half  of  it.  That  is  indisputably  so.  The 
thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.  The 
first  twenty  years  of  life  fasten  upon  our  hearts 
sentiments  and  traditions  that  will  dominate  all 
our  days.  I  spent  my  first  twenty  Christmases 
in  the  old  land.  I  have  spent  far  more  than  twenty 
in  the  new.  Yet,  whenever  I  find  old  Father 
Christmas  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  brow  as 
he  wanders  among  the  roses  and  strawberries  of  our 
fierce  Australian  mid-summer,  I  feel  secretly  sorry 
for  him.  He  looks  as  jolly  as  ever,  yet  he  gives 
you  the  impression  of  having  lost  his  way.  He 
seems  to  be  casting  about  him  for  snowflakes  and 
icicles. 

But,  as  I  was  saying,  it  was  Christmas  Eve — 
an  Australian  Christmas  Eve.  The  day  had  been 
sultry  and  trying.  After  tea  I  sauntered  off  across 

145 


146 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


the  fields  to  a  spot  among  the  fir-trees,  at  which  I 
can  always  rely  upon  meeting  a  few  grey  squirrels, 
an  old  brown  ’possum,  and  some  other  friends  of 
mine.  I  had  scarcely  taken  my  seat  on  a  grassy 
knoll,  overlooking  a  belt  of  bush,  when  the  laugh¬ 
ing-jackasses  broke  into  a  wild,  unearthly  chorus 
in  the  wooded  valley  below.  And  then,  a  few 
minutes  later,  the  cool  evening  air  was  flooded  with 
a  torrent  of  harmony  that  transported  me  across 
the  years  and  across  the  seas.  The  squirrels,  the 
’possum,  and  the  kookaburras  were  left  leagues 
and  leagues  behind.  From  a  lofty  steeple  that 
crowned  a  distant  crest  there  floated  over  hill  and 
hollow  the  pealing  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells. 

The  magic  that  slept  in  the  lute  of  the  Pied  Piper 
was  as  nothing  compared  with  the  magic  of  the  bells. 
Beneath  the  witchery  of  their  music,  time  and  space 
shrivel  into  nothingness  and  are  no  more.  We  are 
wafted  to  old  familiar  places ;  we  see  the  old  familiar 
faces;  we  enter  into  fellowship  with  lands  far  off 
and  ages  long  departed.  Frank  Bullen  heard  our 
Australian  bells.  He  was  only  a  sailor-boy  at  the 
time.  ‘Often,’  he  says,  T  would  stand  on  deck 
when  my  ship  was  anchored  in  Sydney  Harbor  on 
Sunday  morning,  and  listen  to  the  church  bells 
playing  “Sicilian  Mariners”  with  a  dull  ache  at 
my  heart,  a  deep  longing  for  something,  I  knew  not 
what.’  The  bells,  according  to  their  wont,  were 
annihilating  time  and  space.  Beneath  the  enchant¬ 
ment  of  their  minstrelsy  he  sped,  as  on  angels’ 


The  Chimes 


147 


wings,  away  from  the  realities  of  his  rough  and 
roving  sea-life,  into  the  quiet  haven  of  a  tender  past. 
He  was  back  in  his  old  seat  in  a  little  chapel  in 
Harrow  Road.  Every  Englishman  overseas  will 
understand. 

The  bells  throw  bridges  across  the  yawning 
chasms  of  space,  and  link  up  hearts  that  stand 
severed  by  the  tyrannies  of  time.  In  his  Golden 
Legend,  Longfellow  describes  Prince  Henry  and 
Elsie  standing  in  the  twilight  on  the  terrace  of  the 
old  castle  of  Vautsberg  on  the  Rhine.  Suddenly 
they  catch  the  strains  of  distant  bells.  Elsie  asks 
what  bells  they  are.  The  Prince  replies : 

They  are  the  bells  of  Geisenheirn, 

That,  with  their  melancholy  chime, 

Ring  out  the  curfew  of  the  sun. 

And  then  he  adds : 

Dear  Elsie,  many  years  ago 
Those  same  soft  bells  at  eventide 
Rang  in  the  ears  of  Charlemagne, 

As,  seated  at  Fastrada’s  side. 

At  Ingelheim,  in  all  his  pride. 

He  heard  their  sound  with  secret  pain. 

And  SO,  through  the  melodious  medium  of  the  bells, 
the  royal  lovers  on  the  terrace  cross  the  long  cen¬ 
turies  that  intervene  and  enter  into  fellowship  with 
those  other  royal  lovers  of  an  earlier  time. 

I  remember,  many  years  ago,  spending  a  few  days 
at  a  beautiful  country  home  in  Hampshire.  My 


148 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


hostess  was  a  little  old  lady — very  little  and  very 
old.  I  can  see  her  now  with  her  prim  little  cap,  her 
golden  earrings,  and  her  silver  ringlets.  It  was 
summer-time,  and  one  evening  she  invited  me  to 
accompany  her  on  a  walk  across  the  deer-park. 
She  was  a  happy  little  body,  and  that  evening  she 
was  specially  vivacious.  Her  conversation  was 
punctuated  with  pretty  ripples  of  silvery  laughter. 
She  was  too  proud  to  confess  to  feeling  tired;  but 
when  we  reached  a  stile  with  a  step  to  it  on  the  brow 
of  a  hill,  she  took  a  seat  upon  the  step — to  drink  in, 
as  she  was  careful  to  explain,  the  beauty  of  the  view. 
I  perched  myself  upon  the  stile  itself  and  watched 
with  interest  the  antics  of  a  fine  stag  among  some 
oak-trees  not  far  away.  Then,  all  at  once,  the  bells 
from  the  village  behind  us  rang  out  blithely.  For 
a  while  I  listened  in  silence,  and  then  turned  to  my 
companion  to  ask  a  question.  On  glancing  down 
at  her  face,  however,  I  was  astonished  to  notice 
tears  upon  her  cheek.  What  could  be  the  matter 
with  my  gay  little  friend?  I  immediately  trans¬ 
ferred  my  attention  to  the  stag,  who  was  by  this 
time  ambling  away  across  the  park,  but  she  knew 
that  I  had  seen  the  tear-drops.  On  our  way  back  to 
the  house  she  explained. 

‘My  mother  died,’  she  said,  ‘while  I  was  on  my 
honeymoon  in  Italy.  I  was  only  a  girl,  and  she  was 
not  much  more.  She  was  only  twenty  when  I  was 
born,  and  I  was  only  eighteen  on  my  wedding  day. 
I  never  dreamed,  when  I  left  England,  that  I  should 


The  Chimes 


149 


never  see  her  again.  On  the  eve  of  my  wedding 
she  came  up  to  me,  put  her  arm  round  me,  and  led 
me  away  to  spend  one  more  hour  alone  with  her. 
We  sauntered  off  to  the  stile  on  which  you  and  I 
rested  this  evening;  and  as  we  sat  there,  hand  in 
hand,  the  bells  pealed  out  just  as  they  did  to-night. 
And,  as  I  listened  to  them  just  now,  her  face,  her 
form,  her  voice,  her  words — the  very  feeling  of  that 
other  evening  more  than  sixty  years  ago — came 
back  upon  me  more  vividly  than  they  have  ever 
done  before.  I  could  almost  fancy  that  I  was  a  girl 
again.  My  marriage,  my  children,  my  travels,  and 
my  long  widowhood  seemed  all  a  dream.  It  was 
the  bells  that  took  me  back  again !’ 

I  wonder  if  it  was !  I  wonder  if  the  great  iron 
bells  that  hung  in  the  dusty  old  belfry  of  that 
English  hamlet  knew  anything  of  the  sweet  and 
sacred  secrets  that  my  little  old  friend  kept  locked 
up  in  that  gentle  heart  of  hers!  I  wonder  if  the 
bells  of  Geisenheim  knew  anything  of  the  loves  of 
Charlemagne  and  Fastrada,  of  Elsie  and  Prince 
Henry!  I  wonder  if  the  bells  that  drove  the 
squirrels  from  my  mind  that  summer  evening  knew 
anything  of  the  Christmas  thoughts  and  Christmas 
memories  with  which  they  flooded  my  soul!  I 
wonder ! 

And,  in  my  wonderment,  I  find  myself  in  excellent 
company.  For  here  is  little  Paul  Dombey!  He 
has  only  a  few  days  to  live,  although,  to-day,  he  is 
slightly  better  and  able  to  get  about  the  house  a 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


150 

little.  And,  in  moving  about  the  house,  he  finds 
a  workman  mending  the  great  clock  in  the  hall,  and 
Paul  sees  an  opportunity  of  asking  a  few  questions. 
Indeed,  Dickens  says  that  he  asked,  not  a  few,  but 
a  long  string  of  them.  ‘He  asked  the  man  a  multi¬ 
tude  of  questions  about  chimes  and  clocks;  as, 
whether  people  watched  up  in  the  lonely  church 
steeples  by  night  to  make  them  strike,  and  how  the 
bells  were  rung  when  people  died,  and  whether  those 
were  different  bells  from  wedding  bells,  or  only 
sounded  different  in  the  fancies  of  the  living.*  In 
this  last  question,  Paul  gets  very  near  to  our  own. 
Do  the  bells  say  the  things  they  seem  to  say,  or 
do  they  only  seem  to  say  those  things?  Did  the 
bells  of  Geisenheim  speak  of  love  to  the  lovers  on 
the  castle  terrace?  Did  the  bells  of  that  Hamp¬ 
shire  village  speak  to  the  little  old  lady  in  the  deer- 
park  concerning  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne — her 
happy  girlhood  and  her  mothePs  face?  Did  the 
bells  of  that  Australian  steeple  speak  of  the  old- 
fashioned  English  Christmases  as  their  delicious 
music  fell  on  my  delighted  ears  that  summer  night? 

Of  course  not!  The  bells  take  us  as  they  find 
us  and  set  us  to  music ;  that  is  all !  Paul  Dombey, 
who  died  young,  half  suspected  it;  and  Trotty 
Veck  of  The  Chimes,  who  lived  to  be  old,  proved  it 
from  experience,  and  proved  it  up  to  the  hilt.  When 
things  were  going  badly  with  Trotty  and  Richard 
and  Meg,  and  the  magistrate  said  that  people  like 
them  should  be  ‘put  down*  with  the  utmost  rigor  of 


The  Chimes 


151 

the  law,  the  chimes,  when  they  suddently  pealed  out, 
made  the  air  ring  with  the  refrain  Tut  ^em  down; 
Put  'em  down!  Facts  and  Figures;  Facts  and 
Figures!  Put  'em  down!  Put  'em  down!!'  ‘If,' 
says  Dickens,  ‘the  chimes  said  anything,  they  said 
this;  and  they  said  it  until  Tro tty's  brain  fairly 
reeled.'  Later  on  in  the  story,  we  have  the  same 
chimes,  and  the  same  people  listening  to  them.  But 
this  time  all  is  going  well:  Meg  and  Richard  are 
to  be  married  on  the  morrow:  and  Trotty  is  at  the 
height  of  his  felicity.  ‘Just  then  the  bells,  the  old 
familiar  bells,  his  own  dear  constant,  steady  friends 
— the  chimes^ — began  to  ring.  When  had  they  ever 
rung  like  that  before?  They  chimed  out  so  lustily, 
so  merrily,  so  happily,  so  gaily,  that  he  leapt  to  his 
feet  and  broke  the  spell  that  bound  him.'  And,  a 
few  minutes  later,  Trotty  and  Richard  and  Meg 
were  dancing  with  delight  to  the  gay,  glad  music 
of  the  bells ! 

When  they  themselves  were  sad,  the  chimes 
seemed  mournful;  when  they  were  glad,  the  chimes 
seemed  blithe.  ‘Are  they  different  bells?'  asked 
little  Paul  Dombey,  ‘or  do  they  only  sound 
different?'  Paul  was  getting  very  near  to  the  heart 
of  a  great  truth;  and,  if  only  Trotty  Veck  and  he 
could  have  talked  things  over  together,  they  might 
have  given  us  a  philosophy  of  bells  that  would  have 
immeasurably  enriched  our  thought. 

The  chimes  are  among  the  things  to  which 
distance  lends  enchantment.  The  bells,  as  my  little 


152 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


old  lady  and  I  heard  them  from  the  deer-park,  were 
sweeter  than  the  same  bells  heard  in  the  churchyard 
under  the  belfry.  In  his  Cheapside  to  Arcady,  Mr. 
Arthur  Scammell  suggests  that  the  music  of  the 
bells  awakens  the  echoes  of  all  the  infinites  and  all 
the  eternities.  He  finds  himself  up  in  the  bell- 
tower.  ‘After  the  last  stroke  of  the  bell  ceases  to 
be  heard  down  in  the  church,’  he  says,  ‘the  sound 
is  continued  up  here  in  a  long  diminuendo;  and  how 
long  will  it  be  before  that  vibrant  hum  is  completely 
extinguished?  All  through  the  night,  the  air  about 
the  bells  may  still  be  throbbing  with  faint  echoes 
and  reverberations;  and,  if  an  hour  or  a  night, 
why  not  a  year  or  a  century?  May  not  even  the 
sound  of  the  first  ringing  of  these  old  bells  yet  lisp 
against  the  walls  and  roof  in  infinitesimal  vibra¬ 
tions  ?  The  tower  may  be  alive  with  the  thin  ghosts 
of  all  the  joyous  and  mournful  notes  that  have  en¬ 
deared  and  embittered  the  sound  of  bells  to  hundreds 
of  human  hearts.’  And  if,  following  the  same  line 
of  argument,  the  music  of  the  bells  falls  so  sweetly 
on  my  ear  as  I  sit  upon  my  grassy  knoll  two  miles 
away  from  the  steeple,  who  is  to  say  that  twenty 
miles  away,  a  thousand  miles  away,  the  air  is  not 
trilling  and  trembling  with  their  delicious  melodies  ? 
It  may  be  only  because  my  perceptive  faculties  are 
so  gross,  my  ears  so  heavy,  that  I  do  not,  in  this 
Australian  pleasance  of  mine,  catch  the  chimes  of 
B^g  Ben  and  the  echoes  of  Bow  Bells.  And  if  Mr. 
Scammell’s  philosophy  be  true  of  bells,  why  not  of 


The  Chimes 


153 


other  sounds?  As  I  ponder  his  striking  suggestion, 
I  find  it  more  easy  to  understand  that  great  saying 
that  whatsoever  ye  have  spoken  in  darkness  shall  be 
heard  in  the  light,  and  that  which  ye  have  whispered 
in  the  ear  shall  he  shouted  from  the  housetops. 

The  deeds  we  do,  the  words  we  say, 

Into  still  air  they  seem  to  fleet; 

We  count  them  past, 

But  they  shall  last 
To  the  Great  Judgment  Day, 

And  we  shall  meet! 

The  bells  are  not  only  heard  at  a  distance,  they 
are  better  heard  at  a  distance.  It  is  possible  to  get 
so  near  to  them  as  to  miss  the  music.  In  his  auto¬ 
biography,  James  Nasmyth  tells  us  of  a  visit  he 
paid  to  the  tower  of  St.  Giles,  Edinburgh.  He  had 
often  been  charmed  by  the  chimes,  and  longed  to 
get  nearer  to  them.  But  the  experience  brought 
a  rude  disillusionment.  ‘The  frantic  movements 
of  the  musician  as  he  rushed  wildly  from  one  key 
to  another,  often  widely  apart,  gave  me  the  idea 
that  the  man  was  mad,  while  the  banging  of  his 
mallets  completely  drowned  the  music  of  the  chimes.* 
It  is  possible  to  get  too  near  to  things.  You  do 
not  see  the  grandeur  of  a  mountain  as  you  recline 
upon  its  slopes.  The  disciples  were  too  near  to 
Jesus;  that  explains  some  of  the  most  poignant 
tragedies  of  the  New  Testament.  A  minister, 
through  constant  association  with  the  sublimities 
of  divine  truth,  may  lose  the  vision  of  their  eternal 


154 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


grandeur.  And,  unless  things  in  the  manse  are 
very  carefully  managed,  the  members  of  a  minister’s 
family  may  easily  suffer  through  being  too  near  to 
things.  They  do  not  see  the  mountain  in  its  grand 
perspective.  The  banging  of  the  mallets  drowns 
the  music  of  the  bells. 

One  beautiful  June  evening,  years  ago,  I  was 
walking  along  the  banks  of  the  Thames.  It  was 
Saturday  night;  I  had  undertaken  to  preach  at 
Twickenham  on  the  Sunday.  All  at  once  I  was 
arrested  by  the  pealing  of  the  bells.  Strangers 
stopped  each  other  to  inquire  why  the  belfries  had 
become  vocal  at  that  strange  hour.  We  learned 
later  that  the  bells  were  proclaiming  the  birth  of 
an  heir  to  the  British  throne.  A  prince  had  been 
born  at  White  Lodge,  just  across  the  river!  Well 
might  the  bells  peal  that  night ! 

Well,  too,  may  the  bells  peal  on  Christmas  Eve ! 
I  like  to  think  that,  over  the  birth  of  that  babe, 
born  in  Bethlehem,  and  cradled  in  a  manger,  more 
bells  have  been  rung  than  over  all  the  princes  since 
the  world  began.  The  Chinese  cherish  a  lovely 
legend  concerning  the  great  bell  at  Pekin.  The 
Emperor,  they  say,  sent  for  Kuan-Yin,  the  caster 
of  the  bells,  and  described  the  bell  that  he  desired. 
It  was  to  be  larger  than  any  bell  ever  made,  and 
its  tone  more  beautiful.  Its  music  was  to  be  heard 
a  hundred  miles  away.  Great  honors  were  to  be 
heaped  upon  the  bell-maker  if  he  succeeded;  a 
cruel  death  was  to  follow  his  failure.  Kuan-Yin 


The  Chimes 


I5S 

set  to  work;  he  mixed  the  costliest  metals;  he 
labored  night  and  day;  and  at  last  he  finished 
the  bell.  He  tested  it,  and  was  disappointed.  He 
tried  again,  and  was  again  mortified.  He  was  at 
his  wits’  end.  Then  Ko-ai,  his  beautiful  daughter, 
consulted  an  astrologer.  The  oracle  assured  her 
that,  if  the  blood  of  a  fair  virgin  mingled  with  the 
molten  metals,  the  music  would  ravish  the  ears  of 
every  listener.  Ko-ai  returned  to  the  foundry; 
and,  when  the  glowing  metal  poured  white-hot 
from  the  furnace,  she  plunged  into  the  shining  bath 
before  her.  The  music  of  the  great  bell,  the 
Easterns  say,  is  the  music  of  her  sacrifice.  It  is 
only  an  Oriental  myth;  but  it  strangely  helps  me 
to  interpret  to  my  heart  the  solemn  sweetness  that 
I  recognize  in  all  these  Christmas  chimes. 


VII 


‘BE  SHOD  WITH  SANDALS^ 

Is  there  anything  fresh  to  be  said  by  way  of  a  charge 
to  a  young  minister?  I  confess  that,  until  this 
morning,  I  thought  not.  But  this  morning,  to 
my  inexpressible  delight,  I  struck  a  vein  that,  so 
far  as  I  know,  has  never  yet  been  exploited.  On 
these  solemn  and  impressive  occasions,  we  have 
talked  about  the  minister's  scholarship  and  the 
minister’s  spirituality  until  we  have  come  to  feel 
that  we  have  completely  exhausted  that  line  of 
things.  And  in  the  process  we  have  given  the 
awkward  impression  that  the  minister,  so  far  from 
being  made  of  pretty  much  the  same  stuff  as  the 
butcher,  the  baker,  and  the  candlestick-maker, 
is  a  kind  of  biological  monstrosity  consisting  of  a 
very  big  head  and  a  very  big  heart — and  of  nothing 
else! 

But  this  morning  I  made  a  discovery.  Before 
delivering  a  charge  to  a  young  minister,  I  took  the 
precaution  to  have  a  good  look  at  him.  And  I 
found  to  my  surprise  that,  in  addition  tg  the  head 
and  the  heart  upon  which  we  have  always  laid  such 
inordinate  emphasis,  he  also  possesses  a  fine  pair 
of  legs  with  a  substantial  pair  of  feet  at  the  end  of 
them!  Nobody  could  have  supposed  from  the 

156 


^Be  Shod  with  Sandals’ 


157 


most  careful  perusal  of  all  the  ministerial  charges 
in  our  literature,  that  any  minister  was  ever  before 
known  to  possess  these  useful  appendages ;  but 
there  they  are!  I  saw  them  with  my  own  eyes! 
Perhaps  those  who  delivered  the  great  classical 
charges  only  saw  the  young  minister  in  the  pulpit, 
in  which  case  the  limbs  which  I  this  morning  dis¬ 
covered  would  naturally  be  invisible.  Like  the  feet 
of  the  seraphim  in  the  prophet’s  vision,  they  would 
be  modestly  concealed.  But,  though  hidden,  they 
exist;  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  a  few  very  useful 
things  could  be  said  concerning  them.  Why  should 
it  be  considered  infra  dig.,  I  should  like  to  know,  to 
talk  about  people’s  feet,  and  especially  about  a  min¬ 
ister’s  feet?  The  Bible  has  no  hesitation  in  talk¬ 
ing  about  them.  ‘How  beautiful  upon  the  moun¬ 
tains,’  said  the  prophet,  ‘are  the  feet  of  him  that 
bringeth  good  tidings,  that  publisheth  peace;  that 
bringeth  good  tidings  of  good,  that  publisheth  salva¬ 
tion  ;  that  saith  unto  Zion,  Thy  God  reigneth.’  And 
did  not  the  Master  Himself,  when  He  ordained  His 
first  disciples,  deliver  to  them  this  striking  charge? 
*‘Take  no  shoes f  He  said^  ^hut  he  shod  with  sandals!' 
The  African  natives  thought  of  Livingstone’s  boots 
as  a  contrivance  for  carpeting  all  the  slave-tracks  of 
Africa  with  leather,  so  that  he  might  walk  harm¬ 
lessly  and  painlessly  along  them;  and  when  the 
Saviour  tells  His  first  disciples  to  be  shod  with 
sandals  I  fancy  I  see  miles  and  miles  of  meaning  in 
those  arresting  words. 


158 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


^Be  shod  imth  sandals!*  It  is  an  appeal  for 
ministerial  simplicity.  There  were  three  classes  of 
people  in  Palestine,  The  slaves  went  barefoot;  the 
grandees  wore  elaborate  shoes ;  the  working  classes 
wore  sandals.  The  sandals  were  simple,  serviceable, 
and  strong.  Therefore,  said  the  Master  to  His  men, 
*he  shod  with  sandals!*  The  line  of  simplicity  is  in¬ 
variably  the  line  of  strength.  Gibbon  has  shown 
us  that  it  is  the  simplest  architecture  that  has  defied 
both  the  vandalism  of  the  barbarians  and  the  teeth 
of  time.  Macaulay  has  proved  that  it  is  the  simplest 
language  that  lasts  longest.  John  Bunyan’s  books 
threaten  to  survive  all  later  literature.  Why?  ‘The 
style  of  Bunyan,’  Macaulay  says,  ‘is  delightful  to 
every  reader,  and  is  invaluable  as  a  study  to  every 
person  who  wishes  to  obtain  a  wide  command  over 
the  English  language.  The  vocabulary  is  the 
vocabulary  of  the  common  people.  There  is  not  an 
expression  which  would  puzzle  the  rudest  peasant. 
Several  pages  do  not  contain  a  single  word  of  more 
than  two  syllables.  Yet  no  writer  has  said  more 
exactly  what  he  meant  to  say.  For  magnificence; 
for  pathos;  for  vehement  exhortation;  for  subtle 
disquisition;  for  every  purpose  of  the  poet,  the 
orator  and  the  divine;  this  homely  dialect,  the 
dialect  of  plain  working  men,  was  perfectly  suffi¬ 
cient.  There  is  no  book  in  our  literature  on  which 
we  would  so  readily  stake  the  fame  of  the  old  un¬ 
polluted  English  language,  no  book  which  shows  so 
well  how  rich  that  language  is  in  its  own  proper 


'Be  Shod  with  Sandals' 


1 59 

wealth,  and  how  little  it  has  been  improved  by  all 
that  it  has  borrowed.’  It  is  ever  so.  The  simplest 
language  is  the  strongest  language,  and  the  simplest 
lives  are  the  strongest  lives.  In  his  'Ode  on  the 
Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,’  Tennyson  says 
that  the  illustrious  Duke  was  rich  in  saving  com¬ 
mon  sense. 


And  as  the  greatest  only  are 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

Wherefore,  said  the  Master,  avoid  the  vulgarities 
of  the  slave  market  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  stilted 
affectations  of  the  schools  on  the  other.  Let  sim¬ 
plicity  ally  itself  with  strength.  'Be  shod  with 
sandals!' 

It  is  a  great  thing  for  Christ’s  minister  to  eschew 
this  vice  of  extremes.  All  through  the  ages  the 
pendulum  of  ecclesiastical  fashion  has  been  swinging 
between  bare  feet  and  golden  slippers.  From  the 
excessive  worship  of  unholy  revelries,  to  which 
the  Roman  world  was  abandoned,  the  Christians  of 
the  first  century  went  to  the  opposite  extremity,  and 
courted  persecution  by  their  rigid  abstinence  from, 
and  their  severe  condemnation  of,  the  most  legiti¬ 
mate  and  necessary  pleasures.  Back  again  swung 
the  pendulum,  until  the  churches  became  the  scenes 
of  voluptuous  luxury  and  extravagance.  We  read 
on,  and  the  next  chapters  of  our  ecclesiastical  his¬ 
tories  bring  us  to  the  story  of  the  monks  and  the 
hermits.  We  no  sooner  discover  an  age  of  un- 


i6o 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


exampled  self-indulgence,  than  we  straightway 
come  upon  the  Puritanism  that  banned  Pilgrim's 
Progress  as  a  wanton  frivolity,  and  that  denounced 
the  Fairy  Queen  as  a  wicked  and  devilish  invention ! 
And  so  we  go  on.  One  day  Christ’s  minister  would 
go  bare-footed  like  a  slave;  the  next  he  must  needs 
affect  a  pair  of  golden  slippers.  There  was  a  time 
when  the  Church  gloried  in  her  poverty;  her  emis¬ 
saries  wore  no  shoes  on  their  feet;  they  dressed  in 
rags  and  tatters ;  they  ate  the  berries  of  the  hedge¬ 
row;  they  drank  the  waters  of  the  wayside  spring. 
And  then,  hey  presto,  the  scene  is  changed.  The 
Church  gloried  in  her  wealth.  All  the  world  paid 
tribute  to  the  Popes.  Rome  rolled  in  riches ;  and  her 
proud  bishop.  Innocent  the  Fourth,  laughed  as  he 
looked  upon  his  countless  hoards  and  boasted  that 
never  again  need  the  Church  lament  that  of  silver 
and  gold  she  had  none !  Here  is  the  Church  going 
barefooted  like  a  slave;  and  here  is  the  Church 
mincing  in  golden  slippers;  and  neither  spectacle  is 
an  edifying  one.  The  Master  urges  His  men  to 
avoid  both  the  bare  feet  and  the  golden  slippers. 
Let  your  moderation  be  known  unto  all  men.  Be 
shod  with  sandals! 

It  is  the  solemn  and  imperative  duty  of  a  Chris¬ 
tian  minister  to  conserve  both  the  dignity  and  the 
modesty  of  holy  things.  A  certain  offence  in  the 
ancient  law  was  to  be  punished  by  the  deprivation 
of  dignity.  *Thou  shalt  loose  his  shoe  from  off 
his  foot,  and  his  name  shall  be  called  in  Israel,  the 


^Be  Shod  with  Sandals’  i6i 

house  of  him  that  hath  his  shoe  loosed.^  Those 
who  have  carefully  read  that  graceful  and  dramatic 
story  unfolded  in  the  Book  of  Ruth  know  the 
bitterness  of  that  reproach.  The  man  whose  shoes 
were  publicly  removed  was  like  an  officer  whose 
stripes  are  taken  from  his  arm  in  the  sight  of  the 
whole  regiment.  He  became  an  object  of  derision 
and  contempt.  Anyone,  Dr.  Samuel  Cox  points 
out,  might  laugh  at  him  and  call  him  ‘Old  Baresole,’ 
and  his  family  would  be  stigmatized  as  the  family 
of  a  barefooted  vagabond.  Be  shod  with  sandals! 
says  the  Master.  Do  not  expose  the  Church  to  the 
contempt  of  the  multitude !  Conserve  her  dignity ! 
Cast  not  her  pearls  before  swine!  Nor  is  such 
dignity  inconsistent  with  simplicity.  Dr.  Johnson 
penning  from  his  modest  room  at  Gough  Square, 
that  famous  letter  in  which  he  proudly  declined 
the  patronage  of  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  makes 
a  much  more  dignified  picture  than  the  gilded 
aristocrat  who  tardily  fawned  to  the  great  man’s 
fame.  And  George  Gissing  has  shown  that  the 
solitaries  of  Port  Royal,  reading  and  praying  in 
their  poor  apartments,  cut  a  much  more  stately 
figure  in  history  than  his  refulgent  Majesty,  King 
Louis  the  Fourteenth,  strutting  among  the  palatial 
chambers  and  the  spacious  gardens  of  Versailles. 
When  I  see  the  ministers  of  Christ  organizing  nail¬ 
driving  competitions  for  women,  and  hat-trimming 
competitions  for  men,  in  order  to  replenish  a  de¬ 
pleted  treasury,  I  remember  what  Jesus  said  about 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


162 

the  sandals.  He  pleaded  with  His  men  not  to  expose 
His  Church  to  contempt.  It  is  better  to  do  things 
modestly  and  preserve  the  Church’s  dignity  than 
to  swell  her  funds  and  make  her  an  object  of  deri¬ 
sion.  It  is  better  to  wear  sandals  and  be  respected 
than  to  wear  golden  slippers  and  provoke  disgust. 

Modesty  and  dignity  invariably  go  together. 
Every  man  who  aspires  to  the  Christian  ministry 
should  read  every  word  that  Charles  Dickens  ever 
wrote.  In  the  course  of  that  humanizing  process 
he  will  then  come  upon  that  terrible  fourth  chapter 
of  The  Uncommercial  Traveller.  It  is  the  most 
powerful  appeal  for  ministerial  modesty  in  our 
literature.  Can  any  man  read  without  a  shudder 
that  revolting  description  of  evangelistic  bluster? 
And  who  is  he  that  can  read  without  tenderness 
that  closing  appeal  of  the  novelist  to  preachers? 
He  entreats  us  to  remember  the  twelve  poor  men 
whom  Jesus  chose,  and  to  model  our  behavior,  our 
language,  our  style,  and  our  choice  of  illustration 
on  the  exquisite  simplicity  and  charming  grace  of 
the  New  Testament  records. 

But  we  must  sound  yet  a  deeper  depth.  *Be 
shod  with  sandals!^  said  the  Master.  Now  sandals 
are  easily  slipped  off  and  easily  slipped  on.  And 
why  should  the  minister  be  ready,  at  a  moment’s 
notice,  to  bare  his  feet?  The  man  who  has  read 
his  Bible  knows.  There  came  to  Moses  the  Vision 
of  the  Burning  Bush.  ‘And  the  Lord  said  unto 
Moses,  I  am  the  God  of  thy  father,  the  God  of 


'Be  Shod  with  Sandals’ 


163 

Abraham,  the  God  of  Isaac,  and  the  God  of  Jacob. 
Draw  not  nigh  hither;  put  off  thy  shoes  from  off 
thy  feet,  for  the  place  whereon  thou  standest  is 
holy  ground.’  And  when  Moses  the  servant  of  the 
Lord  died,  the  Vision  of  the  Captain  of  the  Lord’s 
Host  came  to  Joshua.  ‘And  Joshua  fell  on  his 
face  to  the  earth,  and  did  worship,  and  said  unto 
him.  What  saith  my  Lord  unto  his  servant?  And 
the  captain  of  the  Lord’s  host  said  unto  Joshua, 
Loose  thy  shoe  from  off  thy  foot;  for  the  place 
whereon  thou  standest  is  holy.  And  Joshua  did 
so.’  ^Be  shod  with  sandals*  said  the  Master,  so 
that,  the  moment  the  vision  comes,  you  may  be 
ready  adoringly  to  welcome  it.  Nothing  in  the 
ministry  is  more  important  than  that  the  minister 
should  keep  in  touch  with  his  dreams,  with  his 
visions,  with  his  revelations.  The  tragedy  of  the 
ministry  is  reached  when  we  lace  up  our  elaborate 
shoes  and  say  good-bye  to  the  place  of  open  vision. 
We  never  expect  again  to  behold  the  glory.  The 
ashes  are  black  on  the  altar  of  the  soul,  the  altar 
on  which  the  sacred  fires  once  blazed.  The  light 
has  gone  out  of  the  eye  and  the  ring  of  passion  has 
forsaken  the  voice.  'Be  shod  with  sandals!*  said 
the  Master  to  His  men.  ‘Take  no  shoes,  but  be 
shod  with  sandals.’  The  vision  that  led  you  into 
the  ministry  may  come  again  and  again  and  again. 
Be  shod  with  sandals  that  you  may  be  ready  for 
the  revelation! 

Yes,  ready  for  the  Revelation  and  ready,  also. 


164 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


for  the  Road!  For  sandals  are  easily  slipped  on. 
And  the  minister  must  expect  the  call  of  the  road 
at  any  moment.  He  must  be  at  home  in  the  silence ; 
he  must  be  ready  for  the  revelation,  but  he  must 
not  become  a  recluse.  That  was  what  Longfellow 
meant  by  his  Legend  Beautiful.  The  vision  ap¬ 
peared  to  the  monk  in  his  cell,  and  he  worshipped  in 
its  wondrous  presence.  Then  he  remembered  the 
hungry  at  the  convent  gate. 

Should  he  slight  his  radiant  guest, 

Slight  his  visitant  celestial, 

For  a  crowd  of  ragged,  bestial 
Beggars  at  the  convent  gate? 

Would  the  Vision  there  remain? 

Would  the  Vision  come  again? 

A  voice  within  bade  him  go  and  feed  the  hungry 
in  the  road  outside, 

Do  thy  duty;  that  is  best, 

Leave  unto  thy  Lord  the  rest. 

He  went;  and  when  he  returned  he  found  to  his 
delight  that  the  Vision  was  still  there. 

Through  the  long  hours  intervening, 

It  had  waited  his  return, 

And  he  felt  his  bosom  burn, 

Comprehending  all  the  meaning, 

When  the  blessed  Vision  said; 

‘Hads’t  thou  stayed,  I  must  have  fled  T 


*Be  shod  with  sandals P  said  the  Master;  so  that 
at  a  moment's  notice,  you  may  slip  them  off  to 


'Be  Shod  with  Sandals’ 


165 

welcome  the  vision  or  slip  them  on  to  take  to  the 
road.  The  crest  of  the  Baptist  Missionary  Society 
is  a  picture  of  an  ox  between  a  plough  and  an  altar, 
while,  underneath  the  symbols,  are  the  words 
*  Ready  for  Either!’  The  ox  is  ready  for  service 
in  the  field  or  for  sacrifice  in  the  temple.  Christ’s 
minister  stands  between  the  glory  and  the  majesty 
of  things  divine  on  the  one  hand  and  all  the  pathos 
and  the  prose  of  human  life  on  the  other.  He 
must  be  ready  at  any  moment  to  enter  into  fellow¬ 
ship  with  the  skies;  and  he  must  be  ready  at  any 
moment  to  hurry  forth  to  see  a  sick  child,  to  com¬ 
fort  a  broken-hearted  woman  or  to  share  the  burden 
of  a  man  whose  load  is  greater  than  he  can  bear. 
*Be  shod  with  sandals’ ;  so  that,  whether  the  Revela¬ 
tion  or  the  Road  shall  call,  you  are  ready  for  either. 
The  ministry  is  neither  mundane  nor  monastic; 
the  minister  wears  sandals  that  he  may  keep  in 
touch  with  two  worlds. 

Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

Where  the  race  of  men  go  by ; 

They  are  good,  they  are  bad,  they  are  weak,  they  are  strong, 
Wise,  foolish.  So  am  I. 

Let  me  turn  not  away  from  their  smiles  nor  their  tears, — 
Both  parts  of  an  infinite  plan, — 

Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road. 

And  be  a  friend  to  man ! 

And  there,  in  his  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
the  minister  will  welcome  his  wondrous  visions,  and 
will  take  good  care  to  he  shod  zvith  sandals.  Gurnall 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


1 66 

concludes  the  first  volume  of  his  great  work  on 
The  Christian  Armour  with  ‘Six  Directions  for  the 
Helping  On  of  this  Spiritual  Shoe^;  but  the  man 
who  is  wise  enough  to  wear  sandals  stands  in  no 
need  of  any  such  elaborate  instructions. 


PART  III 


j 

V 

\ 

■» 


■( 


1 


<- 


I 


WE  ARE  SEVEN! 

Tall,  bronzed  and  bearded,  Bruce  Sinclair  was  a 
typical  New  Zealand  farmer.  He  was  born  in 
Fifeshire,  it  is  true,  but  his  parents  had  emigrated 
when  he  was  so  young  that  he  seemed  to  belong 
to  the  land  of  his  adoption.  They  had  come  out 
on  the  John  Macintyre — one  of  the  first  ships  to 
bring  settlers  to  these  shores.  I  never  saw  the 
old  people.  By  the  time  I  reached  New  Zealand, 
Bruce  had  laid  them  to  rest  in  the  little  God’s-acre 
on  the  crest,  and  was  himself  farming  the  lands 
on  which  they  had  originally  settled.  The  home¬ 
stead  was  up  among  the  foothills  near  Otokia — 
about  nine  miles  south  of  Mosgiel — and  Bruce 
usually  rode  over  on  Sundays.  One  felt  that  some¬ 
thing  was  missing,  if,  on  going  round  to  the  vestry 
door,  ‘Oscar,’  Bruce’s  chestnut  pony,  was  not  to  be 
seen  in  the  yard.  Bruce  was  quiet  and  reserved: 
he  seldom  spoke  unless  he  was  spoken  to  :  but  he 
gave  an  impression  of  depth  and  stability.  In  his 
light  blue  eyes — eyes  that  seemed  paler  than  they 
really  were  by  contrast  with  his  sunburned  and 
weatherbeaten  countenance — ^there  was  a  subtle 
suggestion  of  secret  struggle  and  secret  suffering. 
You  somehow  felt  that  the  calm  of  his  sturdy  per- 

169 


170 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


sonality  was  the  peace  that  comes  when  mighty 
forces  have  been  vanquished,  and  fierce  storms 
stilled.  I  had  heard  it  whispered  that  in  the  early 
colonial  days — the  days  of  his  youth — Bruce  had 
chafed  under  the  restraints  of  home  and  had  for 
some  years  gone  his  own  way;  but  except  that  I 
fancied  that  I  saw  a  look  of  pain  in  his  face  when 
he  first  directed  my  attention  to  the  framed  portraits 
of  his  parents  as  they  hung  on  either  side  of  the 
fireplace  at  Otokia,  he  had  given  me  no  hint  of  any¬ 
thing  of  the  kind. 

One  Sunday  morning  I  missed  the  chestnut  pony. 
During  the  week  Mrs.  Sinclair  called  at  the  manse 
to  tell  me  that  Bruce  was  ill. 

‘But  don^t  trouble  to  come,’  she  said.  ‘He 
couldn’t  see  you  even  if  you  did;  and  it’s  a  long 
way  to  come  for  nothing.  I’ll  let  you  know  when 
he’s  able  to  see  you.’ 

True  to  her  word,  she  at  length  gave  me  per¬ 
mission.  But,  as  it  happened,  I  was  just  setting 
out  for  a  distant  part  of  the  colony — a  journey 
of  a  thousand  miles — and  it  was  nearly  a  month 
before  I  was  able  to  turn  my  face  towards  the  farm 
at  Otokia.  But  the  day  to  which  I  had  so  long 
looked  forward  dawned  at  last.  The  dwelling  that 
served  Bruce  as  a  homestead  was  a  plain,  white 
box-like  little  cottage,  nestling  among  the  hills  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  back  from  the  road.  Seated 
at  the  open  window,  he  had  seen  me  enter  the  big 
gate  at  the  farm-entrance  and  drive  up  the  track 


We  Are  Seven 


171 

from  the  road  to  the  door.  Bowed,  and  leaning 
heavily  upon  two  sticks,  he  came  to  the  doorway 
to  greet  me,  a  wan  srnile  lighting  up  a  countenance 
that  seemed  strangely  pale.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that 
he  had  been  very  ill. 

‘But  there,  Bm  better  now,’  he  said,  cheerfully, 
‘and  shall  soon  be  all  right  again.  Sit  down!’ 
and  he  pointed  to  a  lounge-chair  on  the  verandah. 

We  sat  there  chatting  for  awhile,  and  then  Mrs. 
Sinclair  brought  out  the  afternoon  tea.  As  soon 
as  the  cups  had  been  removed,  I  rose  as  if  to  go. 

‘Oh,  don’t  be  in  a  hurry!’  he  said.  ‘Sit  down! 
I  want  to  tell  you  of  a  strange  experience  I’ve  had.’ 
I  resumed  my  seat. 

‘You  see,’  he  went  on,  ‘I  had  a  birthday — my 
fiftieth — just  as  my  illness  was  at  its  worst.  I  had 
intended  having  a  few  very  old  friends  here  to 
celebrate  the  occasion;  but  that,  of  course,  was  out 
of  the  question.  The  idea  had,  however,  fastened 
itself  so  firmly  upon  my  mind  that,  in  my  delirium, 
I  thought  I  was  sending  out  the  invitations.’  He 
laughed ;  but  I  could  see  that  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  seriousness  behind  it. 

‘You  know  how  at  such  times,  things  get  mixed 
up  in  your  brain,’  he  went  on.  ‘Well,  my  birthday 
invitations  and  the  other  thoughts  that  had  come 
to  me  in  the  earlier  stages  of  my  sickness  got  hope¬ 
lessly  confused.  I  was  in  great  distress  because 
I  could  only  think  of  three  people  whom  I  wanted 
to  invite.  I  wrote  out  invitations  to  The  Man  I 


172 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


Used  to  Be,  The  Man  I  Might  Have  Been,  and  The 
Man  I  Shall  Be.  I  remember  thinking  that  these 
were  strange  people  to  ask;  and  I  was  surprised 
that  the  number  was  so  small.  But  the  odd  part 
is  to  come.  For,  in  the  same  dream  or  in  another — 
I  cannot  be  sure — I  thought  that  I  was  welcoming 
my  guests.  I  had  set  the  table  for  the  four  of  us — • 
my  three  visitors  and  myself — ^but,  to  my  amaze¬ 
ment,  twice  as  many  people  came  as  I  had  invited  1 
I  had  invited  The  Man  I  Used  to  Be;  but  two  men 
arrived,  each  of  them  claiming  to  be  the  personage 
indicated  by  that  description.  Exactly  the  same 
thing  happened  in  the  case  of  The  Man  I  Might 
Have  Been,  and  again  in  the  case  of  The  Man  1 
Shall  Be.  I  was  at  first  very  bewildered  and  con¬ 
fused  by  the  arrival  of  so  many  guests ;  but,  excusing 
myself,  I  added  three  chairs  to  the  number  at  the 
table,  making  seven  in  all.  Then,  when  all  was 
ready,  I  ushered  them  in  and  showed  them  to  their 
places.  And  there  we  sat — the  seven  of  us. 

1.  The  Man  I  Am — at  the  head  of  the  table. 

2.  The  Man  I  Used  To  Be,  No.  i  )  r  • 

3.  The  Man  I  Used  To  Be, 1^0.2 

4.  The  Man  I  Might  Have  Been,  No.  i )  on  my 

5.  The  Man  I  Might  Have  Been,  No.  2 )  left. 

6.  The  Man  I  Shall  Be, '^o.  i  )  .  ,, 

7.  The  Man  I  Shall  Be,  No.  2^^^ 

The  first  thing  that  struck  me  as  I  surveyed 
the  six  faces  about  me  was  that,  although  they 


We  Are  Seven 


173 


seemed  arranged  in  pairs,  no  two  of  the  same  name 
bore  much  resemblance  to  each  other.  The 
couples  were  contrasts  rather  than  duplicates.’  Mrs. 
Sinclair  appeared,  bringing  her  husband’s  medicine ; 
he  drank  it  quickly  and  continued  his  story. 

T  can’t  help  laughing  as  I  think  of  it  now,’  he 
went  on,  ‘it  seems  so  very  fantastic  and  absurd; 
but  it  was  a  grimly  serious  business  at  the  time; 
and  I  am  afraid  that,  considered  as  a  birthday 
frolic,  it  was  scarcely  a  success.  There  I  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  my  six  selves  around  me.  In  each 
of  them  I  could  see  something  of  the  features  that 
I  regularly  behold  in  the  mirror;  but  in  each  case 
the  general  impression  was  either  disfigured  or 
idealized.  Let  me  describe  them  two  by  two. 

‘To  begin  with,  there  was  The  Man  I  Used  To 
Be — ^^the  first  of  that  name.  He  was  my  guest, 
and  I  tried  to  be  civil,  but  in  my  heart  I  could  not 
welcome  him.  I  sat  there  wondering — you  know 
how  such  things  happen  in  dreams — by  what  strange 
impulse  I  had  invited  him  to  my  table.  For,  truth 
to  tell,  I  have  always  dreaded  his  return.  Have 
you  read  Grant  Allen’s  story.  The  Reverend  John 
Greedy?  I  have  it  inside  there:  I  will  ask  Mrs. 
Sinclair  to  bring  it  out  before  you  go,  and  you  shall 
take  it  with  you.  I  read  it  a  few  weeks  before  my 
illness,  and  it  made  a  great  impression  upon  me. 
It  is  the  story  of  an  African  boy,  taken  from  the 
hold  of  a  slaver  on  the  Gold  Coast  and  carried  away 
to  England.  He  is  committed  to  a  Christian  home; 


174 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


is  most  carefully  trained  and  educated;  and  is 
denied  nothing  that  can  add  to  his  culture  and 
refinement.  He  goes  to  Oxford;  becomes  a 
Bachelor  of  Arts;  is  ordained,  and  is  designated  to 
return  as  a  missionary  to  his  native  land.  Before 
leaving,  he  marries  Miss  Ethel  Berry,  a  gently 
nurtured  English  lady ;  and,  amidst  the  good  wishes 
of  a  great  host  of  admiring  friends,  the  two  sail 
from  Southampton  for  Central  Africa.  For  awhile 
all  goes  well;  they  are  very  happy  and  very  useful. 
But,  amidst  the  old  environment,  the  old  feelings 
are  stirred.  His  blood  leaps  to  the  sound  of  the 
toms-toms;  the  native  feasts  and  dances  have  a 
singular  fascination  for  him ;  he  learns  to  love  once 
more  the  native  foods  and  drinks.  It  is  too  much 
for  him;  his  old  self  masters  his  new  self.  He 
abandons  the  work;  leaves  his  wife  to  die;  tears  up 
his  English  clothes;  and  goes  back  to  savagery. 
And  to-day — so  Grant  Allen  concludes  the  story — 
to-day,  the  old  half-caste  Portuguese  rum-dealer 
at  Butabue  can  point  out  to  any  English  pioneer 
who  comes  up  the  river,  which  one,  among  a  crowd 
of  dilapidated  negroes  who  lie  basking  in  the  soft 
dust  outside  his  hut,  was  once  the  Rev.  John  Greedy, 
B.A.,  of  Magdalen  College,  Oxford.  This  story, 
so  recently  read,  may  have  helped  to  shape  my 
dream.  At  any  rate,  I  remember  sitting  at  the 
head  of  the  table  looking  into  the  face  of  The  Man 
I  Used  To  Be.  ‘Tt  is  bad  enough,’’  I  thought  to 
myself,  ‘Vhen  the  old  life  comes  rushing  resistlessly 


We  Are  Seven 


175 


back  upon  one  as  it  rushed  back  upon  John  Creedy, 
no  bolts  or  bars  being  strong  enough  to  keep  it  out ; 
but  by  what  folly  had  I  invited  my  old  self  back  and 
seated  him  at  my  table?”  I  felt,  as  I  gazed  into 
his  face,  as  though  I  had  committed  the  unpardon¬ 
able  sin. 

‘And  there,  sitting  beside  him,  was  his  name¬ 
sake!  You  can  imagine  no  more  striking  contrast. 
For  this  second  edition  of  The  Man  I  Used  to  Be 
appeared  to  be  not  only  a  better  man  than  the  other, 
but  a  better  man  than  The  Man  I  Am.  I  have 
never  told  you  much  about  the  past — one  does  not 
make  a  song  of  such  things — but  I  can  tell  you  that 
it  was  a  wonderful  experience  when,  nearly  thirty 
years  ago,  I  renounced  the  old  life,  entered  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,  and  joined  a  Christian  church. 
As  I  have  said,  I  would  not  go  back  to  the  old  life 
for  anything  on  earth.  And  yet,  looking  back,  I 
can  see  that,  in  those  early  days,  I  had  a  few  fine 
qualities  that  are  not  mine  to-day.  I  love  money 
more  now  than  I  did  then.  I  love  comfort  more 
now  than  I  did  then.  In  those  days,  wayward  as 
I  was,  I  would  gladly  have  given  the  last  coin  that 
I  possessed  to  help  a  chum.  I  remember  once 
drawing  every  penny  of  my  balance  at  the  savings 
bank  to  get  a  comrade  out  of  trouble.  I  would 
have  faced  any  discomfort,  privation,  or  even  death 
itself,  in  an  enterprise  in  which  we  fellows  were 
engaged  together.  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  now  too 
smug  to  be  heroic  and  too  self-centred  to  be  really 


176 


Bubble  and  Roseleaves 


generous.  And,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  as  I  looked 
across  the  table  at  The  Man  I  Used  To  Be — the 
second  one — I  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  The  Man  I 
Am.  I  was  reading  in  a  book  of  George  Eliot’s  that 
there  are  only  two  kinds  of  religious  people — the 
people  who  are  the  better  for  their  religion  and 
the  people  who  are  the  worse  for  it.  I  am  not  sure. 
I  know  that,  on  the  whole,  I  am  the  better  for  my 
faith;  but  I  know,  too,  that  before  my  conversion 
I  had  some  good  points  that  I  have  since  lost. 

need  not  describe  my  other  guests  in  such 
detail.  If  the  contrast  between  the  two  who  an¬ 
swered  to  the  name  of  The  Man  I  Used  To  Be  was 
great,  the  contrast  between  the  two  who  described 
themselves  as  The  Man  I  Might  Have  Been  was 
greater  still.  I  was  ashamed  to  admit  the  first  of 
them  to  the  house,  and  I  could  see  that  several  of 
my  guests  felt  extremely  uncomfortable  in  his  pres¬ 
ence.  This  is  the  man  that  I  should  have  been  to¬ 
day  had  that  radiant  experience  of  nearly  thirty 
years  ago  never  visited  me.  I  saw,  as  I  gazed  into 
the  repulsive  face  of  this  guest,  that,  had  I  con¬ 
tinued  the  career  in  which,  until  then,  I  had  de¬ 
lighted,  the  heroic  qualities  of  my  waywardness 
would  soon  have  vanished,  and  the  sordid  elements 
of  that  lawless  life  would  have  become  dominant 
and  supreme.  The  chivalry  of  those  early  days 
would,  in  time,  have  died  out  of  my  soul,  just  as  it 
died  out  of  King  Arthur’s  Court,  and  the  shame 
and  the  squalor  would  have  become  more  pro- 


We  Are  Seven 


177 


nounced  with  the  years/  Even  sitting  on  the 
verandah,  Bruce  Sinclair  shuddered  as  he  recalled 
this  aspect  of  his  dream. 

*The  companion  picture^ — ^the  other  edition  of 
The  Man  I  Might  Have  Been — was,’  he  continued, 
‘as  different  as  different  could  be.  It  seemed 
ridiculous  that  they  bore  the  same  name.  As  I 
looked  upon  the  first  of  this  pair  I  felt  thankful  that 
I  am  as  I  am ;  but,  when  I  turned  to  the  second,  that 
feeling  completely  forsook  me.  For  I  saw,  as  I 
gazed  into  that  face — the  face  on  my  immediate 
left — ^what  I  should  have  been  if,  jealously  retaining 
all  the  magnanimous  and  open-hearted  qualities 
of  my  early  days,  I  had  added  to  them  all  the  graces 
and  excellences  which  Christian  experience  and  the 
membership  of  the  church  have  made  possible  to 
me.  But  I  have  done  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
I  have  lost  the  high-spirited  virtues  of  my  youth, 
and,  like  a  man  who  has  been  walking  among  dia¬ 
monds,  but  has  been  too  indolent  to  pick  them  up, 
I  have  failed  to  acquire  the  ripe  devoutness  which 
these  later  years  should  have  brought.  It  seems 
strange  now,  but  on  the  very  last  Sunday  morning 
on  which  I  came  to  church,  you  were  preaching  on 
The  Additions  of  Grace:  “Add  to  your  faith,  virtue  : 
and  to  virtue,  knowledge.”  Do  you  remember? 
You  were  saying  that  the  art  of  life  lies  in  adding 
virtue  to  virtue  as  a  mason  adds  tier  to  tier  or  as  a 
tree  adds  ring  to  ring.  I  thought  a  good  deal  about 
it  afterwards,  and  it  may  have  woven  itself  into 


178 


Rubble  and  Boseleaves 


my  dream.  At  any  rate,  I  looked  into  the  face 
beside  me;  I  saw  the  man  that  I  should  have  been 
if  only  I  had  added  to  the  generous  sentiments  of 
youth  the  nobler  attainments  that  Christian  ex¬ 
perience  and  service  offered  me;  and  it  was  like 
turning  from  a  masterpiece  to  a  daub  when  I  once 
more  contemplated  The  Man  I  Am. 

'The  third  pair  did  not  present  so  strong  a  con¬ 
trast.  They  might  easily  have  passed  for  brothers, 
one  of  whom  had  enjoyed  greater  advantages,  and 
moved  in  better  society  than  the  other.  The  first 
of  those  who  presented  himself  as  The  Man  I 
Shall  Be  strongly  resembled,  except  that  he  was 
older.  The  Man  I  Am.  The  fact  is,  I  suppose,  that, 
of  late  years,  I  have  been  content  to  take  life,  at 
least  on  its  religious  side,  pretty  much  as  I  found 
it.  I  have  become  complacent,  easy-going,  readily- 
satisfied,  willing  to  follow  the  drift.  There  was  a 
time,  twenty  years  ago  or  more,  when  I  used  to 
submit  myself  to  periodical  examinations.  I  tested 
myself;  tried  to  ascertain  whether  or  not  I  was 
growing  in  grace;  felt  anxious  as  to  whether  the 
spirit  was  gaining  upon  the  flesh  or  the  flesh  upon 
the  spirit.  But  of  late  years  I  have  taken  things 
less  seriously,  and,  now  that  I  have  time  to  think 
about  such  matters,  I  can  see  that  I  have  settled 
down  to  a  condition  that  is  perilously  like  stagnation. 
Going  on  at  the  same  sluggish  rate  for  a  few  more 
years,  I  cannot  expect  that  I  shall  at  last  differ 
essentially — except  in  age — from  The  Man  I  Am; 


We  Are  Seven 


179 


and  that,  I  suppose,  is  why  the  first  of  these  two 
seems  in  some  respects  to  resemble  so  closely  the 
man  that  I  see  each  day  in  the  mirror. 

'The  second — the  guest  on  my  immediate  right 
— was  a  much  finer  man.  He,  too,  was  old;  but 
there  was  a  grace  and  a  sweetness  and  a  charm 
about  his  age  that  was  quite  absent  from  the  person 
of  his  companion.  Indeed,  but  for  the  association 
of  ideas  suggested  by  the  circumstances  under  which 
we  met,  I  should  never  have  recognized  myself 
in  him.  But  he  has  taught  me — and  I  feel  that  life 
has  been  inestimably  enriched  by  the  lesson — that, 
if  I  set  myself  to  recapture  the  better  qualities  that 
I  have  lost,  and  begin  diligently  to  cultivate  the 
graces  that  I  have  neglected,  I  may  yet  make  some¬ 
thing  of  life,  and  stand,  not  altogether  confused  and 
ashamed,  before  my  Lord  at  the  last. 

T  am  not  sure,’  my  old  friend  concluded,  T  am 
not  sure  that  all  this  occurred  to  me  in  the  course 
of  my  dream.  Much  of  it  has  probably  suggested 
itself  in  my  subsequent  reflections.  In  time  of 
sickness  and  of  convalescence  a  man  sees  life  from 
a  new  angle.  He  is  able  to  do  a  little  stocktaking. 
And  I  feel  that,  in  my  case,  the  operation — perhaps 
because  it  was  particularly  necessary — ^has  been 
particularly  profitable.’ 

Mrs.  Sinclair  came  out  to  ask  if  he  was  feeling 
chilly.  The  afternoon  sun  was  certainly  sinking; 
and  I  am  afraid  that  I  had  allowed  my  friend  to 
tire  himself  in  telling  me  his  tale.  He  made  an 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


i8o 

excellent  recovery,  however,  and,  in  the  years  that 
followed,  was  at  church  more  frequently  than  ever. 
And  it  may  have  been  a  fond  illusion  of  my  own, 
but  somehow  I  fancied  that,  as  time  went  on,  he 
became  more  and  more  like  that  nobler,  lovelier, 
kindlier  self  that  he  had  so  graphically  described 
to  me. 


II 


THE  FISH-PENS 

I  WAS  holiday-making  at  Lake  King.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  Lake  King  is  no  lake  at  all.  It  used  to  be; 
and,  like  the  Church  at  Sardis,  and  like  so  many  of 
us,  it  bears  the  name  that  it  once  earned  but  no 
longer  deserves.  In  former  days,  a  picturesque 
rampart  of  sand  hummocks,  richly  draped  in  native 
verdure,  intervened  between  the  fresh  waters  of  the 
land-locked  lake  and  the  heaving  tides  of  the 
Southern  Ocean.  Then  the  engineers  arrived ; 
and  when  the  engineers  take  off  their  coats  no  man 
can  tell  what  is  likely  to  happen  next.  At  Panama 
they  split  a  continent  in  two.  At  Lake  King  they 
wedded  the  lake  to  the  ocean.  Through  the  range 
of  sand-dunes  they  cut  a  broad,  deep  channel  by 
which  the  big  ships  could  pass  in  and  out,  and,  as 
an  inevitable  consequence,  Lake  King  is  a  lake  no 
longer.  But  it  was  not  the  big  ships  that  interested 
me.  It  was  the  trawlers.  I  liked  to  see  the  fishing- 
boats  come  in  from  the  ocean  and  liberate  their 
shining  spoil  at  the  pens.  On  the  shores  of  the  lake 
the  fishermen  have  fenced  off  a  sheet  of  water,  a 
quarter  of  an  acre  or  so  in  area;  and  into  this 
sheltered  reserve  they  discharge  their  daily  catch. 
I  never  tired  of  visiting  the  fish-pens.  As  I  looked 

i8i 


i82 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


down  into  their  clear  waters  they  seemed  to  be 
one  moving  mass  of  beautiful  fish.  Never  in  my 
life  had  I  seen  so  congested  an  aquarium.  There 
were  thousands  upon  thousands,  tons  upon  tons,  of 
them. 

‘You  should  row  across  in  the  early  morning,’ 
one  of  the  fishermen  was  good  enough  to  say.  ‘You 
would  see  us  dragging  the  pens  and  filling  the  boats 
with  the  fish  that  we  were  about  to  pack  for  the 
market.’ 

I  took  the  hint,  and  shall  never  forget  the  ani¬ 
mated  spectacle  that  I  then  witnessed.  The  waters 
that  had  previously  eeemed  so  tranquil  were  a 
seething  tumult  of  commotion.  The  men  were 
wading  up  to  their  thighs  dragging  the  nets  through 
the  crowded  pens.  Thousands  upon  thousands  of 
splendid  fish  were  fighting  for  dear  life,  excitedly 
darting  and  flapping  and  leaping  and  diving  and 
splashing  in  a  hopeless  attempt  to  escape  the  enmesh- 
ment  of  the  enfolding  toils.  Netful  after  netful 
was  emptied  into  the  boats.  In  half  an  hour  the 
boats  themselves  were  filled  to  the  brim  with  the 
poor  stiffened  creatures  from  which  all  life  and 
beauty  had  departed. 

‘And  do  the  fish  keep  good  in  the  pens  for  an 
indefinite  period?’  I  asked  my  fisherman  friend 
— the  man  who  had  invited  me  across. 

‘Oh,  dear,  no,’  he  replied,  ‘that’s  the  trouble. 
If  we  could  keep  them  here  until  the  market  suited 
us,  we  should  quickly  make  our  fortunes.  But 


The  Fish-Pens 


183 


they  soon  get  slack  and  soft  and  flabby.  The  life 
in  the  pens  isn’t  a  natural  one.  They  haven’t  to 
work  for  their  living  and  they  are  in  no  danger  of 
attack.  The  palings  and  wire-netting  that  keep 
them  in  keep  their  natural  enemies  out.  In  the 
ocean  they  have  to  be  active  and  vigilant  and  spry. 
But  here  they  lie  at  their  ease;  they  move  to  and  fro 
sluggishly  for  the  mere  fun  of  the  thing;  and  they 
soon  go  to  pieces  in  consequence.’ 

Away  on  the  Dogger  Bank  the  fishermen  cherish 
a  tradition  which,  on  suitable  occasions,  they  recite 
with  infinite  relish.  It  belongs  to  the  heroic  age 
that  enfolded  land  and  sea  before  the  day  of  the 
steam-trawler  had  dawned.  In  those  unhurried 
times,  the  fishing-boats  spread  their  tawny  sails, 
and,  to  the  accompaniment  of  chanties  and  choruses 
such  as  sailors  love,  crept  slowly  out  to  sea.  In 
sleepy  little  fishing-villages  along  the  English 
coast,  you  may  still  see  craft  of  this  romantic — and 
historic — build.  One  little  hamlet  of  the  sort  I 
often  visit  in  my  dreams.  Years  ago  I  knew  every 
pebble  on  its  beach.  Winds  and  waves  have 
scooped  out  a  kind  of  alcove  in  the  massive  cliffs. 
High  up,  pressing  closely  against  the  rugged  wall 
of  chalk,  stands  a  cluster  of  weather-beaten  cottages. 
In  front  of  them  the  fishing-boats  are  drawn  up. 
Nets  are  spread  out  on  the  beach  to  dry,  coils  of 
rope  lie  about,  and  piles  of  tackle  are  everywhere. 
If  you  are  as  fortunate  as  I  should  like  you  to  be, 
you  will  see,  moving  to  and  fro  between  his  cottage 


184 


Bubble  and  Roseleaves 


and  his  boat,  a  tall  bronzed  figure  in  a  blue  jersey 
and  a  souVester.  He  is  the  most  popular  fisherman 
in  the  place.  He  was  born  here ;  and,  save  for  two 
years  of  which  he  does  not  like  to  think,  has  spent 
all  his  days  on  this  beach.  Just  once  he  wandered. 
He  joined  the  fleet  on  the  Dogger  Bank.  He  worked 
on  the  trawler  that  raced  out  and  raced  round  and 
raced  back.  He  saw  the  cutters  darting  to  and  fro 
between  the  fleet  and  the  market.  And,  the  more 
he  saw  of  this  side  of  life,  the  less  he  liked  it.  He 
returned  to  the  quiet  little  cove  among  the  cliffs. 
If,  some  day,  you  can  catch  him  in  one  of  his  leisure 
hours,  and  in  one  of  his  garrulous  moods,  he  may  be 
beguiled  into  telling  you  of  the  tales  he  heard  told 
on  the  Dogger.  For,  out  there  where  they  fish  by 
machinery,  and  use  tackle  of  which  the  little  hamlet 
never  dreams,  the  men  like  to  poke  fun  at  the  old- 
fashioned  craft  on  the  beach.  And,  when  they 
speak  of  the  old  days  and  the  old  ways,  they  remind 
each  other  that,  years  ago,  each  fishing-boat  was 
fitted  with  a  tank  or  well,  constructed  with 
perforated  sides  so  that  the  water  it  contained  was 
part  and  parcel  of  the  sea  through  which  the  boat 
was  sailing.  Into  these  wells  the  fish  were  trans¬ 
ferred  from  the  nets  immediately  upon  their  arrival 
from  the  deep.  In  this  new  environment  the 
graceful  creatures  gave  no  evidence  of  discontent 
or  resentment.  They  would  live  indefinitely  in 
their  floating  homes.  But  the  fishermen  found  that, 
like  the  fish  in  these  Australian  pens,  the  fish  in  the 


The  Fish-Pens 


i8s 

wells  waxed  limp  and  listless.  They  lost  their 
flavor  and  sweetness.  This,  according  to  the 
tradition,  happened  to  all  the  fishing-boats  save  one. 

One  fisherman,  and  one  only,  brought  his  fish 
to  market  in  excellent  condition.  He  landed  them 
at  Billingsgate  as  healthy  and  brisk  and  firm  as 
though  he  had  caught  them  ten  minutes  earlier 
under  London  Bridge.  The  dealers  soon  learned  to 
distinguish  between  the  fish  from  his  boat  and  the 
fish  from  all  the  others.  His  fish  brought  the 
highest  prices  on  the  market,  and  the  happy  fisher¬ 
man  rejoiced  in  his  abounding  prosperity.  His 
comrades  marvelled  at  his  success  and  vainly 
endeavored  to  cajole  his  secret  from  him.  He  was 
not  to  be  drawn.  The  matter  remained  an  in¬ 
scrutable  mystery  until  the  day  of  the  old  fisher- 
man^s  death.  Then,  acting  upon  her  father^s  in¬ 
structions,  his  daughter  unfolded  the  secret.  Her 
father,  she  said,  made  it  a  rule  to  keep  a  catfish  in 
the  well  of  his  boat.  The  catfish  kept  the  other  fish 
in  a  ferment  of  agitation  and  alarm.  They  were 
never  at  rest.  And,  because  a  catfish  compelled 
them  to  live  in  the  well  under  conditions  that  were 
approximately  normal,  they  came  to  market  in  as 
wholesome  a  state  as  though  they  had  just  been 
dragged  from  the  deep. 

I  often  take  myself  into  a  quiet  corner  and  remind 
myself  of  my  visit  to  the  fish-pens  or  repeat  to 
myself  the  famous  tradition  of  the  catfish.  I  find 
myself  at  times  in  a  rebellious  mood.  Why  is  life 


i86 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


so  troubled,  so  agitated,  so  disturbed?  If  only  I 
could  be  left  alone !  Why  may  I  not  fold  my  hands 
and  be  quiet  ?  I  am  hunted  up  hill  and  down  dale ; 
I  am  driven  from  pillar  to  post.  I  have  to  work 
for  my  living — an  irksome  necessity.  I  often  have 
to  go  out  when  I  would  rather  stay  in,  and  have  to 
stay  in  when  I  would  rather  go  out.  I  am  the  prey 
of  antagonisms  of  many  kinds.  Life  is  full  of 
irritations,  annoyances,  mortifications,  and  disap¬ 
pointments.  I  am  not  my  own  master.  Like  Paul, 
I  find  a  law  that,  when  I  would  do  good,  evil  is 
present  with  me;  the  good  that  I  would  I  do  not  and 
the  evil  which  I  would  not  that  I  do.  Paul  found  it 
extremely  exasperating,  and  so  do  I.  If  only  I 
could  live  without  work  and  without  worry  and 
without  any  of  my  present  vexations!  Why,  oh 
why,  must  there  always  be  a  catfish  in  my  well? 

A  catfish  is  an  animated  compliment.  I  do  not 
suppose  that  a  Dictionary  of  Oceanography  or  a 
Cyclopccdia  of  Pisciculture  would  define  a  catfish 
precisely  in  that  way.  But  I  prefer  my  own  defini¬ 
tion  to  that  of  the  encyclopaedia;  it  is  more  brief 
and  it  is  quite  as  accurate.  A  catfish,  I  repeat, 
is  an  animated  compliment.  It  is  because  the 
fisherman  values  his  fish  that  he  puts  the  catfish 
into  the  well  to  annoy  them.  ‘I  remember,’  says 
Dr.  James  Stalker,  ‘I  remember  hearing  a  celebrated 
naturalist  describe  a  species  of  jellyfish,  which,  he 
said,  lives  fixed  to  a  rock  from  which  it  never  stirs. 
It  does  not  require  to  go  in  search  of  food,  because 


The  Fish-Pens 


187 


in  the  decayed  tissues  of  its  own  organism  there 
grows  a  kind  of  seaweed  on  which  it  subsists.  I 
thought  I  had  never  heard  of  any  creature  so  com¬ 
fortable.  But  the  eminent  naturalist  whO'  was  de¬ 
scribing  it  went  on  to  say  that  it  is  one  of  the  very 
lowest  forms  of  animal  life,  and  the  extreme  com¬ 
fort  which  it  enjoys  is  the  badge  of  its  degraded 
position.’  Now  this  seems  to  throw  a  little  light  on 
my  own  discontent.  No  fisherman  would  take 
any  pains  to  preserve  such  worthless  things.  When 
the  fisherman  drops  the  hideous  catfish  into  the 
well,  it  is  his  way  of  telling  the  shiny  creatures  that 
are  already  there  of  the  high  esteem  in  which  he 
holds  them. 

This  leads  me  to  Robinson  Crusoe.  Robinson 
Crusoe  caught  a  glimpse  of  this  doctrine  of  the 
catfish,  and  it  dispelled  some  of  his  most  acute 
perplexities.  The  pity  of  it  is  that,  later  on,  when 
he  found  himself  confronted  by  the  gravest  and 
most  baffling  bewilderment  of  all,  he  failed  to  apply 
to  it  the  same  vital  principle.  He  saw  the  law  at 
work  among  his  minor  difficulties ;  it  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  it  might  also  operate  among  the  major 
ones. 

A  day  came  on  which  Crusoe  discovered  that 
he  was  not,  as  he  had  fancied,  the  monarch  of 
all  he  surveyed.  His  sovereignty  was  disputed. 
Everybody  remembers  the  haunting  passage  about 
the  footprint  on  the  sand.  Tt  happened  one  day, 
about  noon,  going  towards  my  boat,  I  was  exceed- 


i88 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


ingly  surprised  with  the  print  of  a  man’s  foot  on 
the  shore.  How  it  came  thither  I  knew  not,  nor 
could  I  in  the  least  imagine;  but  after  innumerable 
fluttering  thoughts,  like  a  man  perfectly  confused 
and  out  of  myself,  I  came  home  to  my  fortification, 
not  feeling,  as  we  say,  the  ground  I  trod  upon,  but 
terrified  to  the  last  degree,  looking  behind  me  at 
every  two  or  three  steps,  mistaking  every  bush 
and  tree,  and  fancying  every  stump  to  be  a  man. 
Nor  is  it  possible  to  describe  how  many  various 
shapes  my  affrighted  imagination  represented  things 
to  me  in,  how  many  wild  ideas  were  found  every 
moment  in  my  fancy,  and  what  strange,  unac¬ 
countable  whimseys  came  into  my  thoughts  by  the 
way.’  Now  this  story  of  Crusoe  and  the  cannibals 
is  simply  the  story  of  the  cod  and  the  catfish  in 
another  fonn.  The  cod  would  have  liked  the  well 
all  to  itself :  it  is  horrified  at  discovering  that  it 
must  share  it  with  a  catfish ! 

Yet,  as  we  have  seen,  the  cod  were  the  better 
for  the  catfish;  and,  as  Crusoe  afterwards  recog¬ 
nized,  the  island  was  enriched  by  the  coming  of 
the  cannibals.  Robinson  Crusoe  is  essentially  a 
story  with  a  moral;  and  Crusoe  leaves  you  in  no 
doubt  as  to  the  moral.  He  is  most  explicit  in  that 
regard.  ‘For,’  he  tells  us,  T  began  to  be  very 
well  contented  with  the  life  that  I  was  leading,  if 
only  I  could  have  been  secured  from  the  dread  of 
the  savages.’  How  little  he  thought  that,  so  far 
from  hurting  a  single  hair  of  his  head,  the  savages 


The  Fish-Pens 


189 

would  provide  him,  in  the  person  of  his  man  Friday, 
with  the  most  devoted  servant  and  most  constant 
friend  that  any  man  could  possibly  possess! 
'Wherefore/  he  says,  in  formulating  the  moral  to 
be  deduced  from  his  sensational  experience,  'where¬ 
fore  it  may  not  he  amiss  for  all  people  who  shall  read 
this  story  of  mine  to  learn  from  it  that  very  fre¬ 
quently  the  evil  which  we  seek  most  to  shun,  and 
which,  when  we  are  fallen  into,  is  the  most  dreadful 
to  us,  is  oftentimes  the  very  means  or  door  of  our 
deliverance,  by  which  alone  zve  can  he  raised  again 
from  the  affliction  into  which  we  have  fallen/ 

Now  this  was  the  minor  perplexity;  the  major 
one  came  later.  And  the  extraordinary  thing  is 
that,  confronted  by  that  larger  perplexity,  Crusoe's 
own  maxim  does  not  seem  to  have  recurred  to  him. 
Crusoe  has  met  the  cannibals;  they  have  come  and 
gone;  and  they  have  left  Friday  behind  them. 
Crusoe  has  taught  Friday  to  speak  English,  and  is 
doing  his  best  to  store  his  mind  with  the  highest 
knowledge  of  all.  'One  day,'  so  runs  his  narrative, 
'I  had  been  teaching  him  that  the  devil  was  God's 
enemy  in  the  hearts  of  men,  and  used  all  his  malice 
and  skill  to  defeat  the  good  designs  of  Providence, 
and  to  ruin  the  kingdom  of  Christ  in  the  world. 
"Well,"  replies  Friday,  in  broken  English,  "but 
you  say  God  is  so  strong,  so  great ;  is  he  not  much 
strong,  much  mighty  as  the  devil?"  "Yes,  yes, 
Friday,"  I  replied,  "God  is  stronger  than  the  devil; 
God  is  above  the  devil,  and  therefore  we  pray  to 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


190 

God  to  tread  him  down  under  our  feet  and  enable 
us  to  resist  his  temptations  and  quench  his  fiery 
darts/*  '‘But/*  says  he  again,  "if  God  much 
stronger,  much  mighty  as  the  wicked  devil,  why 
God  no  kill  the  devil,  so  make  him  no  more  do 
wicked?**  I  was  strangely  surprised  at  this  ques¬ 
tion;  and,  after  all,  though  I  was  now  an  old  man, 
yet  I  could  not  tell  what  to  say,  so  I  pretended  not 
to  hear  him.  But  Friday  kept  repeating  his  ques¬ 
tion  in  the  same  broken  words:  *Why  God  no  kill 
the  devil?^'  I  therefore  diverted  the  discourse  by 
rising  up  hastily  and  sending  him  for  something  a 
long  way  off.*  It  was  the  greatest  humiliation  that 
Robinson  Crusoe  sustained  during  his  long  sojourn 
on  the  island. 

'Why  God  no  kill  the  devilf  asked  Friday.  It 
sometimes  happens  that  the  best  way  of  answering 
one  question  is  to  ask  a  few  more.  Let  us  try. 
'Why  God  no  kill  the  devil  f  Why  did  the  shrewd 
old  fisherman  not  kill  the  catfish  in  the  well  of  his 
boat?  Why  did  the  fish  in  the  pens  grow  slack 
and  soft  and  flabby  as  soon  as  the  palings  and  wire¬ 
netting  cut  them  off  from  the  assaults  of  their 
natural  enemies?  'In  the  Louvre,*  says  Professor 
William  James,  in  his  Varieties  of  Religious  Experi¬ 
ence,  'in  the  Louvre  there  is  a  picture  by  Guido  Reni 
of  St.  Michael  with  his  foot  on  Satan*s  neck.  The 
richness  of  the  picture  is  in  large  part  due  to  the 
fiend*s  figure  being  there.  The  richness  of  its 
allegorical  meaning  also  is  due  to  his  being  there. 


The  Fish-Pens 


191 

The  world,  that  is  to  say,  is  all  the  richer  for  hav¬ 
ing  a  dezil  in  it,  so  long  as  we  keep  our  foot  upon 
his  neck/ 

It  is  an  old  story.  It  is  the  tree  that  is  buffeted 
by  the  wind  that  develops  the  strongest  roots  and 
the  sturdiest  fibre.  It  is  in  the  carcase  of  the  lion 
with  which  he  fought  for  his  life  that  Samson  finds 
the  honey.  T  did  not  learn  to  preach  all  at  once/ 
says  Martin  Luther,  in  a  delightful  burst  of  con¬ 
fidence.  Tt  was  my  temptations  and  my  corrup¬ 
tions  that  best  prepared  me  for  my  pulpit.  The 
devil  has  been  my  best  professor  of  exegetical  and 
experimental  divinity.  Before  that  great  school¬ 
master  took  me  in  hand,  I  was  a  sucking  child 
and  not  a  grown  man.  It  was  my  combats  with 
sin  and  with  Satan  that  made  me  a  true  minister 
of  the  New  Testament.  It  is  always  a  great  grace 
to  me,  and  to  my  people,  for  me  to  be  able  to  say 
to  them,  ‘T  know  this  text  to  be  true  1  I  know  it 
for  certain!”  Without  incessant  combat  and  pain 
and  sweat  and  blood,  no  ignorant  stripling  of  a 
student  ever  yet  became  a  powerful  preacher.’ 
That  is  the  lesson  that  I  learned  at  the  fish-pens. 
That  is  the  secret  that  the  wise  old  fisherman,  of 
catfish  fame,  bequeathed  to  his  mystified  com¬ 
panions.  That  is  what  Robinson  Crusoe  learned 
in  the  course  of  his  long  and  lonely  exile.  And, 
in  the  rough  and  tumble  of  common  life,  there  is 
scarcely  any  lesson  of  greater  value  to  be  learned. 


Ill 


EDGED  TOOLS 

I  WAS  motoring  among  the  semi-tropical  landscapes 
of  Queensland.  We  swept  past  gardens  that  were 
gay  with  scarlet  flame  trees,  brilliant  creepers, 
bright-red  corals,  and  bougainvilleas  of  many 
gorgeous  hues.  Spread  out  in  endless  panorama 
about  us  were  orange  groves,  vineyards,  sugar 
plantations,  and  fields  in  which  the  pineapple,  the 
banana,  the  paw-paw,  the  mango,  and  the  bread¬ 
fruit  luxuriated.  And  then  we  burst  into  the  bush, 
which  only  differed  from  the  bush  to  which  I  was 
more  accustomed  in  that  it  was  sprinkled  with 
enormous  anthills  and  dotted  with  green  clumps  of 
prickly  pear. 

After  several  hours  spent  in  this  delightful  way, 
the  car  unexpectedly  stopped,  and  my  host  and 
hostess  prepared  to  alight.  I  peered  about  me  for 
some  explanation  of  their  behavior,  but  could  no¬ 
where  discover  one.  There  was  no  house  to  be 
seen  nor  any  sign  of  civilization  or  of  settlement. 
My  first  impulse  was  to  remain  in  the  car  with  the 
driver. 

‘We  are  going  a  little  way  into  the  bush,’  my 
host  explained,  addressing  me;  ‘if  you  care  to  come 
with  us,  we  shall  be  very  pleased.’ 


192 


Edged  Tools 


193 


I  joined  them  instantly,  and  we  were  soon  out 
of  sight  of  the  car.  We  picked  our  way  through 
the  thick  undergrowth  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
then  emerged  upon  a  little  plot  carefully  fenced  off 
from  the  surrounding  wilderness.  It  was  a  cemetery 
only  a  few  feet  square;  and  it  contained  three 
graves!  It  was  evidently  to  the.  central  one  that 
our  pilgrimage  had  been  made.  My  companions 
stood  in  silence  for  a  moment  beside  it,  and  then 
seated  themselves  on  the  grass  near  by. 

‘In  our  early  days/  my  host  explained,  ‘we 
used  to  live  not  very  far  from  here.  It  was  a  lonely 
place  and  a  hard  life;  and  it  had  joys  and  sorrows 
of  its  own.  The  greatest  of  its  joys  was  the  birth 
of  Don,  our  firstborn;  and  the  greatest  of  our  sor¬ 
rows  was  his  death.  He  was  only  five  when  we 
buried  him.^ 

‘Yes,’  added  his  wife,  brushing  a  tear  from  her 
eye,  ‘and  we  buried  him  with  a  broken  penknife 
in  his  hand,  A  swagman  who  had  sheltered  for 
the  night  in  one  of  the  out-buildings  had  given  it 
to  him  before  leaving  in  the  morning,  and  Don 
thought  it  the  most  wonderful  thing  he  had  ever 
possessed.  He  was  working  away  with  it  from 
morning  to  night.  He  would  not  trust  it  out  of 
his  sight.  He  had  it  in  his  hand  when,  a  few  days 
afterwards,  he  was  taken  ill.  He  clung  to  it  all 
through  his  sickness.  If  he  dropped  it  in  his  sleep, 
he  asked  for  it  as  soon  as  he  woke.  He  raved  about 
it  in  his  delirium.  And  it  was  firmly  clasped  in 


194 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


his  hand  when  he  died.  We  had  not  the  heart 
to  take  it  from  him,  and  so  he  went  down  to  his 
grave  still  holding  it* 

Often  since  I  have  thought  of  that  burial  in  the 
bush,  not  merely  because  the  incident  was  so  touch¬ 
ing,  but  because  it  was  so  intensely  characteristic. 
A  boy*s  infatuation  for  his  first  pocket  knife!  It 
may  have  a  rusty  handle  and  a  broken  blade;  the 
edge  may  be  as  jagged  as  the  edge  of  a  saw  and  the 
spring  may  have  vanished  with  the  days  of  long  ago ; 
it  makes  no  difference.  With  a  knife  in  his  hand 
a  boy  feels  that  he  is  monarch  of  all  he  surveys. 
With  a  knife  in  his  hand  he  feels  himself  every 
inch  a  man.  A  boy’s  first  consciousness  of  power, 
of  dominion,  of  authority  comes  to  him  on  the  day 
on  which  he  grasps  his  first  knife.  It  is  by  means  of 
a  knife  that  he  carves  his  way  to  destiny. 

Civilization  may  be  said  to  have  dawned  on  the 
day  on  which  the  first  man  in  the  world  held  in  his 
hand  the  first  knife  in  the  world.  It  was  made  of 
stone,  like  the  knives  of  all  savage  and  primitive 
peoples.  It  came  into  his  possession  almost  by 
chance.  He  was  gathering  together  some  huge 
stones,  and  building  for  himself  a  wall.  Presently 
one  heavy  stone  slipped  from  his  hands,  fell  with 
a  crash  upon  another,  and  broke.  But  it  was  not 
a  clean  break.  There  lay  at  that  first  man’s  feet 
two  large  fragments  of  stone  and  a  multitude  of 
splinters.  He  picked  up  the  largest  of  the  splinters 
and  found  that  it  had  a  keen,  sharp  edge.  He  cut 


Edged  Tools 


195 


his  finger  as  he  stroked  it,  and  the  blood  crimsoned 
the  stone.  He  dropped  it  as  he  would  have  dropped 
a  snake  that  had  bitten  him.  But,  as  he  nursed 
his  smarting  hand,  he  saw  the  possibilities  that  the 
sharp-edged  splinter  opened  to  him.  He  remem¬ 
bered  the  toil  with  which  he  had  torn  down  branches 
of  trees  and  shaped  them  to  his  use.  The  splinter 
would  simplify  his  task.  He  forgot  his  lacerated 
finger.  He  seized  another  stone,  dashed  it  against 
its  neighbor,  and,  by  repeating  the  process,  soon 
secured  for  himself  a  more  shapely  splinter — a 
splinter  with  which  he  could  cut  down  the  branches 
less  laboriously.  He  tried  it.  He  laughed  as  he 
found  that,  armed  with  the  splinter,  he  could  hack 
the  yielding  timber  to  his  will.  He  was  more 
excited  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  Here  was 
the  first  man  with  his  first  knife — the  pioneer  man 
with  the  pioneer  knife!  For  that  first  man  was  the 
father  of  men  of  many  colors,  and  that  first  knife 
was  the  father  of  blades  of  many  kinds.  From  it 
sprang  the  sickle  and  the  scythe,  the  chisel  and  the 
saw,  the  spade  and  the  tomahawk,  the  rapier  and 
the  dagger,  the  scalpel  and  the  poniard,  the  razor 
and  the  sword. 

The  joy  that  the  boy  feels  as  he  looks  lovingly 
on  his  first  knife  is  the  joy  of  shaping  things.  The 
world  about  him  has  suddenly  become  plastic. 
It  is  a  block  of  marble  and  he  is  the  sculptor. 
He  may  make  of  it  what  he  will.  Until  he  possessed 
a  knife,  the  hard  inanimate  substances  about  him 


196 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


defied  him.  He  was  the  bird  and  they  were  the 
bars.  But  now  he  defies  them.  The  knife  makes 
all  the  difference.  The  knife  is  his  sceptre.  He  is 
a  king  and  all  things  are  subject  to  him. 

He  may,  of  course,  abuse  his  power.  He  probably 
will.  A  boy  with  a  knife  is  very  liable  to  carve 
his  name  in  the  polished  walnut  of  the  piano  or  to 
cut  notches  out  of  the  neatly-turned  legs  of  the 
dining-room  table.  From  all  parts  of  the  world 
people  go  on  pilgrimage  to  Westminster  Abbey. 
And,  at  the  Abbey,  they  are  shown  the  Coronation 
Chair.  Seated  in  it,  all  our  English  sovereigns  have 
been  crowned,  and  it  is  encrusted  with  traditions 
that  go  back  to  the  days  of  the  patriarchs.  But  a 
boy  with  a  knife  feels  no  reverence  for  antiquity. 
On  the  night  of  July  5,  1800,  a  Westminster  school¬ 
boy  got  locked  in  the  Abbey.  He  curled  himself 
up  in  the  Coronation  Chair  and  made  it  his  resting- 
place  until  morning.  And,  in  the  morning,  he 
thought  of  his  pocket-knife.  And,  as  the  dawn 
came  streaming  through  the  storied  eastern  win¬ 
dows,  he  carved  deeply  into  the  solid  oak  of  the 
seat  of  the  chair,  the  notable  inscription:  P.  Abbot 
slept  in  this  chair,  July  5,  1800.  Thus  he  buried  his 
blade  in  one  of  the  noblest  of  our  great  historic 
treasures.  It  was  enough  to  make  the  illustrious 
dead,  by  whom  he  was  everywhere^ surrounded,  turn 
in  their  ancient  graves.  George  the  Fourth  and  all 
his  successors  have  since  been  crowned  in  a  Chair 
that  bears  that  impertinent  record !  Yet,  as  the  chips 


Edged  Tools 


197 


flew,  the  boy  felt  no  compunction.  And,  in  his 
stolid  calm,  he  is  the  type  and  representative  of  all 
who  abuse  the  authority  with  which  they  are  in¬ 
vested.  He  feels,  as  he  wields  the  knife,  that  all 
things  are  at  his  mercy;  he  can  shape  them  to  his 
liking.  He  forgets  that  power  carries  its  attendant 
obligations,  and  that,  foremost  among  those  obliga¬ 
tions,  is  the  obligation  to  restraint.  A  boy  with 
a  knife  in  his  hand  is  merely  a  miniature  edition 
of  a  man  with  a  sword  in  his  hand.  And  a  man 
with  a  sword  in  his  hand  is  often  tempted  to  bury 
his  blade  in  that  which  is  even  more  precious  than 
the  oak  of  a  Coronation  Chair.  Piano-frames  and 
table-legs  are  not  the  only  things  that  cry  aloud 
for  protection.  The  greatest  lesson  that  the  world 
has  learned  in  our  time  is  that  the  power  of  the 
sword  involves  its  possessor  in  a  responsibility  that 
is  simply  frightful.  The  blood  of  brave  men,  the 
tears  of  good  women,  and  the  hard-earned  wealth  of 
nations  must  never  be  frivolously  or  lightheartedly 
outpoured. 

From  the  moment  at  which,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
that  first  man  seized  that  first  sharp  splinter,  the 
knife  has  steadily  grown  upon  the  imaginations 
of  men.  It  took  a  thousand  generations  to  dis¬ 
cover  its  potentialities.  Indeed,  our  own  generation 
is  only  just  beginning  to  realize  the  possibilities  that 
it  unfolds.  Think  of  the  marvels — I  had  almost 
said  the  miracles — of  modern  surgery. 

‘Let  nothing  share  your  heart  with  your  knife!’ 


198 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


said  Dr.  Ferguson  to  Barney  Boyle,  in  The  Doctor 
of  Crow's  Nest.  The  old  doctor  had  just  fallen  in 
love  with  Barney.  He  liked  his  looks,  he  liked  his 
temperament,  and  he  liked  his  hands. 

‘You  must  be  a  surgeon,  Barney!  YouVe  got 
the  fingers  and  the  nerves !  A  surgeon,  sir!  That’s 
the  only  thing  worth  while.  The  physician  can’t 
see  further  below  the  skin  than  any  one  else.  He 
guesses  and  experiments;  treats  symptoms;  tries 
one  drug  and  then  another.  But  the  knife,  my 
boy!’  The  doctor  rose  and  paced  the  floor  in  his 
enthusiasm.  ‘The  knife,  boy!  There’s  no  guess 
in  the  knifepoint.  The  knife  lays  bare  the  evil, 
fights  it,  eradicates  it!  The  knife  at  the  proper 
moment  saves  a  man’s  life.  A  slight  incision  an 
inch  or  two  long,  the  removal  of  the  diseased  part, 
a  few  stitches,  and,  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  the 
patient’s  well!  Ah,  boy,  God  knows  I’d  give  my 
life  to  be  a  great  surgeon.  But  he  didn’t  give  me 
the  fingers.  Look  at  these !’  and  he  held  up  a  coarse, 
heavy  hand.  T  haven’t  the  touch.  But  you  have! 
You  haye  the  nerve  and  the  fingers  and  the  mechani¬ 
cal  ingenuity;  you  can  be  a  great  surgeon.  You 
shall  have  all  my  time  and  all  my  books  and  all 
my  money;  I’ll  put  you  through!  You  must  think, 
dream,  sleep,  eat,  drink  bones  and  muscles  and 
sinews  and  nerves !  Push  everything  else  aside !’  he 
cried,  waving  his  great  hands  excitedly.  ‘And  re¬ 
member!’ — here  his  voice  took  a  solemn  tone^ — *let 
nothing  share  your  heart  with  your  knife!' 


Edged  Tools 


199 


Let  nothing  share  your  heart  with  your  knife! 
That  is  always  the  knife's  appeal.  It  is  a  plea  for 
concentration.  I  was  talking  to  an  old  gardener  the 
other  day.  He  was  pruning  his  trees.  The  gleam¬ 
ing  blade  was  in  his  hand  and  the  path  was  littered 
with  the  wreckage  of  the  branches.  He  seemed  to 
be  working  a  shocking  havoc,  and  I  told  him  so. 
He  laughed. 

‘Oh,  they're  well-meaning  things,  are  trees!’  he 
exclaimed.  ‘They  are  anxious  to  do  their  best  for 
you,  but  they  attempt  too  much,  far  too  much.  Just 
look  at  this  one !'  and  he  laughed  again.  ‘It  thought 
it  could  cover  all  these  branches  with  roses;  and,  if 
we  left  it  alone,  it  would  try.  But  what  sort  of 
roses  would  they  be,  I  should  like  to  know?  No, 
no,  no ;  it  is  better  for  them  to  produce  fewer  blos¬ 
soms  but  to  produce  good  ones.  We  mustn't  let 
them  attempt  too  much !’ 

‘Let  nothing  share  your  heart  with  your  knife!’ 
said  old  Dr.  Ferguson,  as  he  urged  Barney  to  do 
just  one  thing  and  to  do  that  one  thing  well. 

‘We  mustn’t  let  the  rose-trees  attempt  too  much!’ 
said  the  old  gardener,  as  he  lopped  off  the  branches 
with  his  pruning-knife. 

That  seems  to  be  the  lesson  that  the  knife  is 
always  teaching.  I  remember  going  one  bright 
afternoon  to  see  Gregor  Fawcett  of  Mosgiel. 
Gregor  was  passing  through  a  troublous  and  trying 
time.  Hard  on  top  of  heavy  business  losses  had 
come  the  collapse  of  his  health.  To  my  delight. 


200 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


however,  I  found  him  in  a  particularly  cheerful 
mood. 

^Fve  been  reading  aboot  the  knife,  d’ye  ken?’  he 
explained.  'It’s  a  bonny  passage!’  He  took  the 
open  Bible  from  the  table  beside  the  bed  and  pointed 
me  to  the  fifteenth  of  John.  'Every  branch  in  Me 
that  heareth  not  fruit,  he  cutteth  away;  and  every 
branch  that  beareth  fruit,  he  pruneth  it  that  it  may 
bring  forth  more  fruit/ 

'It  brought  me  a  power  o’  comfort,’  Gregor  ex¬ 
plained.  'For  it  says,  ye  ken,  that  there  are  only 
two  sorts  o’  wood  on  the  tree — the  dead  wood  and 
the  live  wood.  He  cuts  away  the  dead  wood  for 
the  sake  of  the  live  wood  that  he  leaves;  and  he 
cuts  the  live  wood  that  bears  fruit  so  that  it  may 
bear  still  more  and  still  better  fruit.  Well,  I  thocht 
o’  all  the  losses  I’ve  had  lately.  I  dinna  ken  whether 
the  things  that  have  been  taken  were  dead  things 
or  live  things,  but  it  doesna  matter.  If  they  were 
dead  things.  I’m  better  without  them.  And,  if  they 
were  live  things,  they  were  only  cut  away  because 
my  life  is  like  a  tree  that  bears  fruit  and  that  may 
yet  bear  more.  And,  in  either  case,  the  best 
remains.  The  tree  is  the  richer  and  not  the  poorer 
for  the  pruning.  The  pruning  only  shows  that  the 
gardener  cares.  Ay,  it’s  a  bonny  passage  that!’ 
and  Gregor  laid  the  open  Bible  lovingly  on  the 
pillow  beside  him.  'After  you’ve  gone,’  he  said,  'I 
shall  go  over  it  again!’ 

And,  from  the  frequency  with  which  he  quoted 


Edged  Tools 


201 


the  words  to  buffeted  spirits  in  the  days  that  fol¬ 
lowed,  I  could  see  that,  on  that  further  inspection, 
Gregor  had  kissed  the  husbandman’s  knife  even 
more  reverently  and  rapturously  than  before. 


IV 


OLD  PHOTOGRAPHS 

We  badly  need  an  Asylum  for  Antiquated  Por¬ 
traiture — a  pleasant  and  hospitable  refuge  in  which 
all  our  old  photographs  could  be  carefully  preserved 
and  reverently  handled.  For  lack  of  such  an 
institution  we  are  all  in  difficulties.  People  come 
into  our  lives;  we  become  attached  to  them  and 
value  their  friendship;  we  exchange  photographs; 
and,  as  soon  as  we  have  done  so,  the  inevitable 
happens.  The  photographs  get  hopelessly  out  of 
date.  Friends  come  and  go;  we  come  and  go;  but 
the  photographs  remain.  Or,  if  the  friends  them¬ 
selves  abide,  they  change;  fashions  change;  and,  in 
a  few  years,  the  photographs  look  singularly  archaic 
if  not  positively  ridiculous.  They  go  away  into  a 
drawer  or  a  box.  Once  or  twice  a  year  a  spring- 
cleaning  or  other  volcanic  upheaval  reminds  us  of 
their  existence.  ‘We  must  really  sort  these  out  and 
destroy  a  lot  of  them !’  we  say ;  but  we  never  do  it. 
Everybody  knows  why.  It  seems  a  betrayal  of  old 
confidences,  an  outrage  upon  sentiment,  a  heartless 
sacrilege.  There  should  be  an  asylum  for  obsolete 
portraiture,  or,  if  that  is  out  of  the  question,  we 
should  do  with  the  photographs  what  Nansen  and 
Johansen,  the  Polar  explorers,  did  with  their  dogs. 


202 


Old  Photographs 


203 


Neither  had  the  heart  to  shoot  his  own;  so,  amid 
the  ice  and  snow  of  the  far  north,  they  exchanged 
their  canine  companions,  and  each  went  sadly  and 
silently  away  and  shot  the  other’s  ! 

Such  a  course  must,  however,  be  regarded  as  a 
makeshift  and  a  subterfuge.  The  asylum  is  the 
thing.  I  am  opposed,  tooth  and  nail,  to  the 
destruction  of  old  photographs  under  any  condi¬ 
tions.  I  spent  an  hour  yesterday  afternoon  down  by 
the  lake  reading  some  of  the  love-letters  that  Mozart 
wrote  to  his  wife  nearly  two  centuries  ago.  Poor 
Johann  and  poor  Stanzerl!  They  were  so  pitifully 
penniless  that  when,  one  bitter  winter’s  morning, 
a  kindly  neighbor  fought  his  way  through  the  deep 
snow  to  see  how  the  young  couple  were  getting 
on,  he  found  them  dancing  a  waltz  on  the  bare 
boards  of  their  narrow  room.  They  could  not 
afford  a  fire,  and  this  was  their  device  for  keeping 
warm.  And  now  Johann  is  away  on  a  business 
trip.  In  our  time  a  husband  so  situated  would 
send  his  wife  a  telegram  to  say  that  he  had  arrived 
safely,  or,  perhaps,  buy  her  a  picture-postcard  of 
the  view  from  his  hotel  window.  But  Mozart 
wrote  the  prettiest  love-letters.  ^Dear  little  wife,’ 
he  says,  hf  I  only  had  a  letter  from  you!  If  I 
were  to  tell  you  all  that  I  do  with  your  dear  likeness, 
how  you  would  laugh!  For  instance,  when  I  take 
it  out  of  its  case,  I  say  “God  greet  thee,  Stanzerl, 
God  greet  thee,  thou  rascal,  shuttlecock,  pointy-nose, 
nicknack,  bit  and  sup!”  And,  when  I  put  it  back, 


204 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


I  let  it  slip  in  very  slowly,  saying,  with  each  little 
push,  “Now — now — now!’'  and  at  the  last,  quickly 
— “Good-night,  little  mouse,  sleep  well !"  '  Where 
is  that  portrait  now?  I  dread  to  hazard  a  con¬ 
jecture!  There  was,  alas,  no  asylum  to  which  it 
could  be  fondly  and  reverently  entrusted.  Photo¬ 
graphs,  like  fashions,  are  capable  of  strange  revivals. 
One  never  knows  when  crinolines  or  hobble  skirts 
will  reappear;  and  in  the  same  way,  one  never 
knows  the  moment  at  which  some  quaint  old  faded 
photograph  will  acquire  new  and  absorbing  interest. 

‘Why,  bless  me,'  you  exclaim,  as  you  lay  down 
the  newspaper,  ‘here's  Charlie  Brown  become 
famous !  You  remember  Charlie  ;  he  was  the  second 
son  of  the  Browns  who  lived  opposite  us  at  Kensing¬ 
ton  !  Why,  I  have  a  photograph  of  him,  taken  when 
he  was  a  little  boy;  I'll  run  and  get  it!'  But  alas, 
it  has  been  destroyed.  Or  the  regret  may  be  even 
more  poignant. 

‘Dear  me,'  you  say,  ‘poor  old  Mary  Smith  is 
dead!'  The  announcement  brings  with  it,  as  such 
announcements  have  a  way  of  doing,  a  rush  of 
reminiscence.  A  simple  old  soul  was  Mary  Smith. 
She  was  very  good  to  us,  five  and  twenty  years  ago, 
when  the  children  were  all  small  and  sicknesses 
were  frequent.  Mary  always  knew  exactly  what  to 
do.  But  we  moved  away,  and  the  years  went  by. 
Letter-writing  was  not  in  Mary's  line.  With  the 
obituary  notice  still  before  us,  we  talk  of  Mary  and 
the  old  days  for  awhile,  and  then  we  suddenly 


Old  Photographs 


205 


remember  that,  when  we  came  away,  Mary  gave 
us  her  photograph.  It  was  a  quaint,  old-fashioned 
picture;  it  had  been  taken  some  years  earlier;  but 
we  were  glad  to  have  it,  and  we  put  it  with  the 
others.  We  must  slip  up  and  get  it!  But  it,  too, 
has  vanished  I  Somehow,  Mary  living  did  not  seem 
quite  so  pathetic  and  lovable  a  figure  as  Mary  dead. 
At  some  spring-cleaning  we  must  have  glanced  at 
the  creased  and  faded  portrait,  and,  without  pausing 
to  allow  memory  to  do  such  vivid  work  as  she  has 
done  to-day,  we  must  have  tossed  it  out.  We  feel 
horribly  ashamed.  If  only  we  could  recover  the 
old  photograph  we  would  stand  it  on  the  mantel¬ 
piece  and  do  it  signal  honor.  And  to  think  that,  in 
the  confusion  of  cleaning-up,  we  threw  it  out,  per¬ 
haps  tore  it  up,  perhaps  even  burned  it.  We 
shudder  at  the  thought,  and  half  hope  that,  in  her 
new  and  larger  life,  Mary — who  seems  nearer  to  us 
now  than  she  did  before  we  read  of  her  passing — 
does  not  know  that  we  were  guilty  of  treachery  so 
base. 

Thus  there  come  into  our  lives  moments  when 
photographs  assert  their  worth  and  insist  on  being 
appraised  at  their  true  value.  In  the  stirring  chap¬ 
ter  in  which  Sir  Ernest  Shackleton  tells  of  the  loss 
of  his  ship  among  the  ice-floes,  he  describes  an 
incident  that  must  have  set  all  his  readers  thinking. 
In  the  grip  of  the  ice,  the  Endurance  had  been 
smashed  to  splinters ;  and  the  entire  party  were  out 
on  a  frozen  sea  at  the  mercy  of  the  pitiless  elements. 


206 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


Shackleton  came  to  the  conclusion  that  their  best 
chance  of  eventually  sighting  land  lay  in  marching 
to  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  floe;  at  any  rate, 
it  would  give  them  something  to  do,  and  there  is 
always  solace  in  activity.  He  thereupon  ordered 
his  men  to  reduce  their  personal  baggage  to  two 
pounds  weight  each.  For  the  next  few  hours  every 
man  was  busy  in  sorting  out  his  belongings — the 
treasures  that  he  had  saved  from  the  ship.  It  was 
a  heart-breaking  business.  Men  stole  gloomily  and 
silently  away  and  dug  little  graves  in  the  snow,  to 
which  they  committed  books,  letters,  and  various 
nicknacks  of  sentimental  value.  And,  when  the 
final  decisions  had  to  be  made,  they  threw 
away  their  little  hoards  of  golden  sovereigns  and 
kept  the  photographs  of  their  sweethearts  and 
wives ! 

The  same  perplexity  arises,  sooner  or  later,  in 
relation  to  the  portraits  and  pictures  on  our  walls. 
They  become  obsolete;  but  we  find  it  difficult  to 
order  their  removal.  I  had  intended,  long  before 
this,  devoting  an  essay  to  the  whole  subject  of 
Pictures.  Why  must  we  smother  our  walls  with 
pictures?  To  begin  with,  the  pattern  of  the  paper 
is  often  a  series  of  pictures  in  itself,  while  the  dado 
and  the  border  simply  add  to  the  collection.  Then, 
over  these,  we  carefully  arrange  a  multitude  of 
others.  Paintingts,  engraving's,  and  photographs 
hang  everywhere.  Why  do  we  cover  the  walls  in 
this  way  ?  The  answer  is  that  we  cover  the  walls  in 


Old  Photographs 


207 


order  to  cover  the  walls.  The  walls  represent  an 
imprisonment ;  the  pictures  represent  an  escape.  On 
the  wall  in  front  of  me,  for  example,  there  hangs  a 
water-color  sketch  of  Piripiki  Gorge,  our  New 
Zealand  holiday  resort.  On  a  winter’s  night,  when 
the  rain  is  lashing  against  the  windows  and  the  wind 
shrieking  round  the  house,  I  glance  up  at  it,  and, 
by  some  magic  transition,  I  am  roaming  on  a  sum¬ 
mer’s  evening  over  the  old  familiar  hills  with  my 
gun  in  my  hand  and  John  Broadbanks  by  my  side. 
Through  the  medium  of  those  landscapes,  how 
many  tireless  excursions  have  I  taken,  by  copse 
and  beach  and  riverbank,  without  so  much  as  rising 
from  my  chair?  The  photographs  hanging  here 
and  there  around  the  room  transport  my  mind  to 
other  days  and  other  places.  The  apartment  in 
which  I  sit  may  be  extremely  small,  just  as  the 
space  that  I  occupy  on  the  summit  of  a  mountain 
may  be  extremely  small.  But,  occupying  that  small 
space  upon  that  lofty  eminence,  I  command  a  view 
that  loses  itself  in  infinity;  and,  lounging  in  my 
comfortable  chair  in  this  little  snuggery  of  mine, 
the  pictures  transform  it  into  an  observatory,  and 
I  am  able  to  survey  the  entire  universe.  You  do  not 
hang  pictures  in  the  cells  of  a  jail;  the  reason  is 
obvious;  you  do  not  wish  the  prisoners  to  escape; 
you  think  it  good  that  they  should  feel  the  stern 
tyranny  of  those  four  uncompromising  walls.  Con¬ 
versely,  you  deck  the  dining-room  with  pictures  be¬ 
cause,  there,  you  do  not  desire  to  feel  imprisoned; 


208 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


you  do  not  wish  the  walls  to  seem  tyrannical.  As 
Mr.  Stirling  Bowen  sings : 

Four  walls  enclose  men,  yet  how  calm  they  are  I 
They  hang  up  pictures  that  they  may  forget 
What  walls  are  for  in  part,  forget  how  far 
They  may  not  run  and  riotously  let 
Their  laughter  taunt  the  never-changing  stars. 

In  circus  cages  wolves  and  tigers  pace 
For  ever  to  and  fro.  They  do  not  rest. 

But  seek  so  nervously  the  longed-for  place." 

Our  picture-jungles  would  not  end  their  quest, 

Or  pictures  of  another  tiger’s  face. 

On  four  square  walls  men  have  their  world,  their  strife. 
Their  painted,  framed  endeavors,  joys  and  pain; 

And  two  curators  known  as  man  and  wife 

Hang  up  the  sunrise,  wipe  the  dust  from  rain. 

And  gaze  excitedly  on  painted  life. 

A  picture  on  the  wall  is  like  a  window — only 
more  so !  A  window  looks  out  on  the  garden  or  the 
street;  a  picture  is  an  opening  into  infinity.  The 
view  from  my  window  is  controlled  by  circum¬ 
stances.  I  cannot,  for  example,  live  in  this  Aus¬ 
tralian  home  of  mine  and  command,  from  my  win¬ 
dow,  a  view  of  York  Minster,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
or  the  Rocky  Mountains.  And,  even  if  I  could, 
the  darkness  of  each  night  would  enfold  the  pleasing 
prospect  in  its  sombre  and  impenetrable  veil.  But 
the  pictures  do  for  me  what  windows  could  never 
do.  By  means  of  the  pictures  I  cut  holes  in  the  walls 
and  look  out  upon  any  landscape  that  takes  my 


Old  Photographs 


209 


fancy.  And,  when  evening  comes,  I  draw  the  blinds, 
illumine  the  room  from  within,  and  the  pano¬ 
rama  that  has  so  delighted  me  in  the  day-time 
reveals  fresh  charms  in  the  softer  radiance  of  the 
lamps. 

We  all  owe  more  to  pictures  than  we  have  ever 
yet  begun  to  suspect.  Here  is  a  merry  young  romp 
of  a  schoolboy,  of  tousle-head  and  swarthy  face; 
loving  the  open-air  and  hating  books  like  poison. 
A  lady  gives  him  a  ponderous  volume,  and  he  turns 
away  with  a  sneer.  But  one  day  he  casually  opens 
it.  There  is  a  colored  picture.  It  represents 
Robinson  Crusoe  and  his  man  Friday  in  the  midst 
of  one  of  their  most  exciting  adventures.  The  boy 
— George  Borrow — seized  the  book,  carried  it  off, 
and  never  rested  until  he  had  read  it  from  cover  to 
cover.  It  opened  his  eyes  to  the  possibilities  of 
literature;  and,  to  his  dying  day,  he  declared  that, 
but  for  that  colored  print,  the  world  would  never 
have  heard  his  name  or  read  a  line  from  his  pen. 
Nor  is  this  all.  For  it  is  probable  that,  in  infancy, 
our  minds  receive  their  first  bias  towards — or  away 
from — sacred  things  from  the  pictures  of  biblical 
subjects  and  biblical  characters  that  are  then, 
wisely  or  unwisely,  exposed  to  our  gaze.  The  Face 
that,  in  the  secret  chambers  of  our  hearts,  we  think 
of  as  the  Face  of  Jesus  is,  in  all  likelihood,  the  Face 
that  we  saw  in  the  first  picture-book  that  mother 
showed  us. 

But  I  fear  that  I  have  wandered.  I  set  out  to 


210 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


talk,  not  so  much  about  pictures,  as  about  photo¬ 
graphs — photographs  in  general  and  old  photo¬ 
graphs  in  particular.  Have  photographs — and 
especially  old  photographs — no  ethical  or  spiritual 
value  ?  Is  there  a  man  living  who  has  not,  at  some 
time,  felt  himself  rebuked  by  eyes  that  looked  down 
at  him  from  a  frame  on  the  wall?  I  often  feel,  in 
relation  to  the  photographs  around  the  room,  as 
Tennyson  felt  in  relation  to  the  spirits  of  those 
whom  he  had  loved  long  since  and  lost  awhile.  It 
is  lovely  to  think  that  those  who  have  passed  from 
our  sight  are  not,  in  reality,  far  from  us.  And  yet — 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side? 

Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 

I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 

See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame 

And  I  be  lessen’d  in  his  love? 

Who  has  not  been  conscious  of  a  similar  feeling 
under  the  searching  glances  of  the  eyes  upon  the 
wall  ?  They  seem  at  times  to  pierce  our  very  souls. 
Tennyson  came  at  last  to  the  comfortable  assurance 
that  the  shrinking  fear  with  which  he  thought  of 
his  dead  friends  was  not  justified.  For,  he  reflected, 
those  who  have  gone  out  of  the  dusk  into  the  day¬ 
light  have  acquired,  not  only  a  loftier  purity,  but  a 
larger  charity. 


Old  Photographs 


2II 


I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue : 

Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death : 
The  dead  shall  look  me  thro’  and  thro’. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


It  is  pleasant  to  transfer  that  thought  to  the 
photographs  around  the  room.  They  hang  there  all 
day  and  every  day;  they  hear  all  that  we  say  and 
see  all  that  we  do;  those  quiet  eyes  seem  to  read 
us  narrowly.  Yet  if,  on  the  one  hand,  they  see  more 
in  these  secret  souls  of  ours  to  blame,  it  is  possible 
that,  on  the  other,  they  see  more  to  pity.  The  judge¬ 
ments  that  we  most  dread  are  the  judgements  of 
those  who  only  partly  understand.  The  drunkard 
shrinks  from  the  eyes  of  those  w'ho  see  his 
debauchery  but  know  nothing  of  his  temptation. 
There  is  something  wonderfully  comforting  and 
strengthening  in  the  clear  eyes  of  those  who  see, 
not  a  part  merely,  but  the  whole. 

Charles  Simeon,  of  Cambridge,  adorned  his  study 
wall  with  a  fine  picture  of  Henry  Martyn.  It  is 
very  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  owed  most  to 
the  other.  In  the  days  when  he  was  groping  after 
the  light,  Henry  Martyn — then  a  student — fell 
under  the  influence  of  Mr.  Simeon,  and  no  other 
minister  helped  him  so  much.  But,  later  on,  when 
Henry  Martyn  was  illumining  the  Orient  with  the 


212 


Rubble  and  Eoseleaves 


light  of  the  gospel,  his  magnetic  personality  and 
heroic  example  exerted  a  remarkable  authority  over 
the  ardent  mind  of  the  eminent  Cambridge  scholar. 
Mr.  Simeon  began  to  feel  that,  in  some  subtle  and 
inexplicable  way,  the  portrait  on  the  wall  was 
influencing  his  whole  life.  The  picture  was  more 
than  a  picture.  A  wave  of  reverential  admiration 
swept  over  him  whenever  he  glanced  up  at  it.  He 
caught  himself  talking  to  it,  and  it  seemed  to  speak 
to  him.  His  biographer  says  that  *Mr.  Simeon 
used  to  observe  of  Martyn^s  picture,  while  looking 
up  at  it  with  affectionate  earnestness,  as  it  hung 
over  his  fireplace:  ‘^There!  see  that  blessed  man! 
What  an  expression  of  countenance!  No  one 
looks  at  me  as  he  does!  He  never  takes  his  eyes 
off  me,  and  seems  always  to  be  saying:  Be  serious! 
Be  in  earnest!  Don^t  trifle!  don^t  trifle T  Then 
smiling  at  the  picture  and  gently  bowing,  he  added : 
''And  I  won^t  trifle;  I  won^t  trifle!”^  His  friends 
always  felt  that  the  photograph  over  the  fireplace 
was  one  of  the  most  profound  and  effective  influ¬ 
ences  in  the  life  and  work  of  Charles  Simeon;  and 
nobody  who  treasures  a  few  reproving  and  inspir¬ 
ing  pictures  of  the  kind  will  have  the  slightest  diffi¬ 
culty  in  believing  it. 

The  photographs  upon  my  wall  are  never  tyran¬ 
nical;  else  why  should  I  prefer  them  to  the  cold, 
imprisoning  walls?  But,  though  never  tyrannical, 

'  they  are  always  authoritative.  They  speak,  not 
harshly,  but  firmly.  In  the  nature  of  the  case,  these 


Old  Photographs 


213 


are  the  faces  I  revere — the  faces  of  those  whom 
I  have  enthroned  within  my  heart.  Being  en¬ 
throned,  they  command.  They  sometimes  say  Thou 
shalt:  they  sometimes  say  Thou  shalt  not.  They 
sometimes  suggest;  they  sometimes  prohibit. 

And  now,  before  I  lay  down  my  pen,  shall  I 
reveal  the  circumstance  that  led  me  to  this  train 
of  thought?  I  am  writing  at  Easter-^time.  On 
Good  Friday  a  lady  presented  me  with  an  exquisitely 
sad  but  unspeakably  beautiful  picture — a  picture 
of  the  Thorn-crowned  Face.  Where  am  I  to  hang 
it?  It  will  insist,  tenderly  but  firmly,  on  a  suitable 
and  harmonious  environment.  Henry  Drummond 
used  to  tell  of  a  Cambridge  undergraduate  whose 
sweetheart  visited  his  room.  She  found  its  walls 
covered  with  pictures  of  actresses  and  racehorses. 
She  said  nothing,  but,  on  his  birthday,  presented 
him  with  a  picture  like  this.  A  year  later  she  again 
called  on  him  at  Cambridge.  The  Thorn-crowned 
Face  hung  over  the  fireplace;  and  the  other  walls 
were  adorned  with  charming  landscapes  and  repro¬ 
ductions  of  famous  paintings.  He  caught  her 
glancing  at  her  gift. 

Tt’s  made  a  great  difference  to  the  room,’  he  said ; 
Vhat’s  more,  it’s  made  a  great  difference  in  me!' 

That  is  a  way  our  pictures  have.  They  insist  on 
ruling  everything  and  everybody.  I  have  no  right 
to  enthrone  a  despot  in  my  home;  nor  to  exalt  a 
Thorn-crowned  King  unless  I  am  prepared  to  make 
Him  Lord  of  all. 


V 


A  BOX  OF  BLOCKS 
I 

We  had  a  birthday  at  our  house  to-day,  and  among 
the  presents  was  a  beautiful  box  of  blocks.  Each 
block  represented  one  of  the  letters  of  the  alphabet. 
As  I  saw  them  being  arranged  and  rearranged  upon 
the  table,  I  fell  a-thinking.  For  the  alphabet  has, 
in  our  time,  come  to  its  own.  We  go  through  life 
muttering  an  interminable  and  incomprehensible 
jargon  of  initials.  We  tack  initials  on  to  our 
names — fore  and  aft — and  we  like  to  see  every  one 
of  them  in  its  place.  As  soon  as  I  open  my  eyes 
in  the  morning,  the  postman  hands  me  a  medley  of 
circulars,  postcards  and  letters.  One  of  them  bids 
me  attend  the  annual  meeting  of  the  S.P.C.A. ; 
another  reminds  me  of  the  monthly  committee  meet¬ 
ing  of  the  M.C.M. ;  a  third  asks  me  to  deliver  an 
address  at  the  P.S.A.  In  the  afternoon  I  rush  from 
an  appointment  at  the  Y.M.C.A.  to  speak  on  behalf 
of  the  W.C.T.U. ;  and  then,  having  dropped  in  to 
pay  my  insurance  premium  at  the  A.M.P.,  I  take 
the  tram  at  the  G.P.O.,  and  ask  the  conductor  to 
drop  me  at  the  A.B.C.  I  have  accepted  an  invitation 
to  a  pleasant  little  function  there — an  invitation 
that  is  clearly  marked  R.S.V.P.  And  so  on. 


214 


A  Box  of  Blocks 


215 


There  is  no  end  to  it.  Life  may  be  defined  as  a 
small  amount  of  activity  entirely  surrounded  by 
the  letters  of  the  alphabet. 

Now  the  alphabet  has  a  symbolism  of  its  own. 
The  man  who  coined  the  phrase  ^as  simple  as  A.B.Cf 
went  mad ;  he  went  mad  before  he  coined  it.  There 
are,  it  is  true,  a  few  simplicities  sprinkled  among 
the  intricacies  of  this  old  world  of  ours;  but  the 
alphabet  is  not  one  of  them.  I  protest  that  it  is 
most  unfair  to  call  the  alphabet  simple.  Nobody 
likes  to  be  thought  simple  nowadays;  see  how 
frantically  we  preachers  struggle  to  avoid  any 
suspicion  of  the  kind!  Any  man  living  would 
rather  be  called  a  sinner — or  even  a  saint — than  a 
simpleton.  Why,  then,  affront  the  alphabet,  which, 
as  we  have  seen,  is  working  a  prodigious  amount  of 
overtime  in  our  service,  by  applying  to  it  so  very 
opprobrious  an  epithet  ? 

'As  simple  as  A.B.C./  indeed!  Macaulay’s 
schoolboy  may  not  have  been  as  omniscient  as  the 
historian  would  lead  us  to  believe,  but  he  at  least 
knew  that  there  is  nothing  simple  about  the  A.B.C. 
The  alphabet  is  the  hardest  lesson  that  a  child  is 
called  Upon  to  learn.  Latin  roots,  algebraic  equa¬ 
tions,  and  the  Pons  Asinorum  are  mere  nothings 
in  comparison.  Grown-ups  have  short  memories. 
They  forget  the  stupendous  difficulties  that  they 
surmounted  in  their  earliest  infancy;  and  their  for¬ 
getfulness  renders  them  pitiless  and  unsympathetic. 
Few  of  us  recognize  the  strain  in  which  a  child’s 


2i6 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


brain  is  involved  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  con¬ 
fronts  the  alphabet.  The  whole  thing  is  so  arbi¬ 
trary;  there  is  no  clue.  In  his  noble  essay  on  The 
Evolution  of  Language,  Professor  Henry  Drum¬ 
mond  shows  that  the  alphabet  is  really  a  picture- 
gallery.  Thirst,'  he  says,  'there  was  the  onomato- 
poetic  writing,  the  ideograph,  the  imitation  of  the 
actual  object.  This  is  the  form  we  find  in  the 
Egyptian  hieroglyphic.  For  a  man  a  man  is  drawn, 
for  a  camel  a  camel,  for  a  hut  a  hut.  Then,  to  save 
time,  the  objects  were  drawn  in  shorthand — a  couple 
of  dashes  for  the  limbs  and  one  across,  as  in  the 
Chinese,  for  a  man;  a  square  in  the  same  language 
for  a  field;  two  strokes  at  an  obtuse  angle,  sug¬ 
gesting  the  roof,  for  a  house.  To  express  further 
qualities,  these  abbreviated  pictures  were  next  com¬ 
pounded  in  ingenious  ways.  A  man  and  a  field  to¬ 
gether  conveyed  the  idea  of  wealth;  a  roof  and  a 
woman  represented  home;  and  so  on.  And  thus, 
little  by  little,  our  letters  were  evolved.  But  the 
pictures  have  become  so  truncated,  abbreviated  and 
emasculated,  in  the  course  of  this  evolutionary 
process,  that  a  child,  though  notoriously  fond  of 
pictures,  sees  nothing  fascinating  in  the  letters  of 
the  alphabet.  There  is  absolutely  nothing  about  the 
first  to  suggest  the  sound  A;  nothing  about  the 
second  to  suggest  the  sound  B.  The  whole  thing 
is  so  incomprehensible;  how  can  he  ever  hope  to 
master  it?  An  adult  brain,  introduced  to  such  a 
conglomeration  for  the  first  time,  would  reel  and 


A  Box  of  Blocks 


217 


stagger;  is  it  any  wonder  that  these  childish  cheeks 
get  flushed  or  that  the  curly  head  turns  at  times 
very  feverishly  upon  the  pillow  ? 

The  sequence,  too,  is  as  baffling  as  the  symbols. 
There  is  every  reason  why  two  should  come  between 
one  and  three;  and  that  reason  is  so  obvious  that  the 
tiniest  tot  in  the  class  can  appreciate  it.  But  why 
must  B  come  between  A  and  C?  There  is  no 
natural  advance,  as  in  the  case  of  the  numerals. 
The  letter  B  is  not  a  little  more  than  the  letter  A, 
nor  a  little  less  than  the  letter  C.  Except  through 
the  operation  of  the  law  of  association,  which  only 
weaves  its  spell  with  the  passing  of  the  years,  there 
is  nothing  about  A  to  suggest  B,  and  nothing  about 
B  to  suggest  C.  The  combination  is  a  rope  of  sand. 
Robert  Moffat  only  realized  the  insuperable  char¬ 
acter  of  this  difficulty  when  he  attempted  to  teach 
the  natives  of  Bechuanaland  the  English  alphabet. 
Each  of  his  dusky  pupils  brought  to  the  task  an 
observation  that  had  been  trained  in  the  wilds,  a 
brain  that  had  been  developed  by  the  years,  and 
an  intelligence  that  had  been  matured  by  experience. 
They  were  not  babies.  Yet  the  alphabet  proved 
too  much  for  them.  Why  should  A  be  A  ?  and  why 
should  B  be  B  ?  and  why  should  the  one  follow  the 
other?  Mr.  Moffat  was  on  the  point  of  abandoning 
his  educational  enterprise  as  hopeless,  when  one 
thick-lipped  and  woolly-headed  genius  suggested 
that  he  should  teach  them  to  sing  it !  At  first  blush 
the  notion  seemed  preposterous.  There  are  some 


2i8 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


things  which,  like  Magna  Charta  and  minute-books, 
cannot  be  set  to  music.  Robert  Moifat,  however, 
was  a  Scotsman.  The  tune  most  familiar  to  his 
childhood  came  singing  itself  over  and  over  in  his 
brain;  by  the  most  freakish  and  fantastic  conjunc¬ 
tion  of  ideas  it  associated  itself  with  the  problem 
that  was  baffling  him;  and,  before  that  day’s  sun  had 
set,  he  had  his  Bechuana  pupils  roaring  the  alphabet 
to  the  tune  of  Auld  Lang  Syne! 

So  A  B  C 
D  E  F  G 

H  I  J  K  L  M 
N  O  P  Q 
R  S  T  U 
V  W  X  Y  Z. 

The  rhyme  and  metre  fitted  perfectly.  The 
natives  were  so  delighted  that  they  strolled  about 
the  village  shouting  the  new  song  at  the  tops  of 
their  voices ;  and  Mr.  Moffat  declares  that  daylight 
was  stealing  through  his  bedroom  window  before 
the  weird  unearthly  yells  at  last  subsided.  I  have 
often  wondered  whether,  in  a  more  civilized  en¬ 
vironment,  any  attempt  has  been  made  to  impress 
the  letters  upon  the  mind  in  the  same  way. 

II 

The  symbolism  of  the  alphabet  rises  to  a  sudden 
grandeur,  however,  when  it  is  enlisted  in  the  service 
of  revelation.  Long,  long  ago  a  startled  shepherd 


A  Box  of  Blocks 


219 


was  ordered  to  visit  the  court  of  the  mightiest  of 
earthly  potentates,  and  to  address  him  on  matters 
of  state  in  the  name  of  the  Most  High.  ^And  the 
Lord  said  unto  Moses,  Come  now,  therefore,  and  I 
zvill  send  thee  unto  Pharaoh,  and  I  will  send  thee 
also  unto  the  children  of  Israel.  And  Moses  said 
unto  God,  Behold,  when  I  am  come  unto  them  and 
shall  say.  The  God  of  your  fathers  hath  sent  me 
unto  you,  and  they  shall  say  What  is  His  name? 
what  shall  I  say  unto  them?  And  God  said  unto 
Moses,  Thus  shalt  thou  say  unto  the  children  of 
Israel,  I  AM  hath  sent  me  unto  you!* 

'/  am - !* 

*I  am — what?^ 

For  centuries  and  centuries  that  question  stood 
unanswered ;  that  sentence  remained  incomplete. 
It  was  a  magnificent  fragment.  It  stood  like  a 
monument  that  the  sculptor  had  never  lived  to 
finish;  like  a  poem  that  the  poet,  dying  with  his 
music  in  him,  had  left  with  its  closing  stanzas  un¬ 
sung.  But  the  sculptor  of  that  fragment  was  not 
dead ;  the  singer  of  that  song  had  not  perished.  For, 
behold.  He  liveth  for  evermore!  And,  in  the  full¬ 
ness  of  itme.  He  reappeared  and  filled  in  the  gap 
that  had  so  long  stood  blank. 

*I  am - !* 

7  am — what  ?’ 

7  am — the  Bread  of  Life!*  7  am — the  Light  of 
the  World!*  7  am — the  Door!*  7  am — the  True 
Vine!*  7  am — the  Good  Shepherd!*  7  am — the 


220 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


IV ay,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life!*  ‘I  am — the  Resur¬ 
rection  and  the  Life!* 

And  when  I  come  to  the  end  of  the  Bible,  to  the 
last  book  of  all,  I  find  the  series  supplemented  and 
completed. 

‘I  am — Alpha  and  Omega!*  ‘I  am — A  and  Z!* 
‘I  am — the  Alphabet!*  The  symbolism  of  which  I 
have  spoken  can  rise  to  no  greater  height  than  that. 
What,  I  wonder,  can  such  symbolism  symbolize? 
I  take  these  birthday  blocks  that  came  to  our  house 
to-day  and  strew  the  letters  on  my  study  floor.  So 
far  as  any  spiritual  significance  is  concerned,  they 
seem  as  dead  as  the  dry  bones  in  EzekieFs  Valley. 
And  yet — V  am  the  Alphabet!*  ‘Come,’  I  cry,  with 
the  prophet  of  the  captivity,  ‘come  from  the  Four 
Winds,  O  Breath,  and  breathe  upon  these  slain  that 
they  may  live !’  And  the  prayer  has  scarcely  escaped 
my  lips  when  lo,  all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  shine 
with  a  wondrous  lustre  and  glow  with  a  profound 
significance. 

Ill 

For  see,  the  North  Wind  breathes  upon  these 
letters  on  the  floor,  and  I  see  at  once  that  they  are 
symbols  of  the  Inexhaustibility  of  Jesus!  am 
Alpha  and  Omega!*  ‘7  am  the  Alphabet!*  I  have 
sometimes  stood  in  one  of  our  great  public  libraries. 
I  have  surveyed  with  astonishment  the  serried 
ranks  of  English  literature.  I  have  looked  up, 
and,  in  tier  above  tier,  gallery  above  gallery,  shelf 


A  Box  of  Blocks 


221 


above  shelf,  the  books  climbed  to  the  very  roof, 
while,  looking  before  me  and  behind  me,  they 
stretched  as  far  as  I  could  see.  The  catalogue  con¬ 
taining  the  bare  names  of  the  books  ran  into  several 
volumes.  And  yet  the  w^hole  of  this  literature  con¬ 
sists  of  these  twenty-six  letters  on  the  floor  arranged 
and  rearranged  in  kaleidoscopic  variety  of  juxta¬ 
position.  Which,  I  ask  myself,  is  the  greater — 
the  literature  or  the  alphabet?  And  I  see  at  once 
that  the  alphabet  is  the  greater  because  it  is  so  in¬ 
exhaustible.  Literature  is  in  its  infancy.  We  shall 
produce  greater  poets  than  Shakespeare,  greater 
novelists  than  Dickens,  greater  philosophers,  his¬ 
torians  and  humorists  than  any  who  have  yet 
written.  But  they  will  draw  upon  the  alphabet  for 
every  letter  of  every  syllable  of  every  word  that  they 
write.  They  may  multiply  our  literature  a  million- 
million-fold;  yet  the  alphabet  will  be  as  far  from 
exhaustion  when  the  last  page  is  finished  as  it  was 
before  the  first  writer  seized  a  pen. 

7  am — the  Alphabet!*  He  says.  He  means  that 
He  cannot  be  exhausted. 

For  the  love  of  God  is  broader 

Than  the  measure  of  Man’s  mind; 

And  the  heart  of  the  Eternal 
Is  most  wonderfully  kind. 

The  ages  may  draw  upon  His  grace;  the  men  of 
every  nation  and  kindred  and  people  and  tongue — 
a  multitude  that  no  statistician  can  number — may 


222 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


kneel  in  contrition  at  His  feet;  His  love  is  as  great 
as  His  power  and  knows  neither  measure  nor  end. 
He  is  inexhaustible. 

IV 

And  when  the  South  Wind  breathes  upon  these 
letters  on  the  floor,  I  see  at  once  that  they  are 
symbols  of  the  Indispensability  of  Jesus.  Litera¬ 
ture,  with  all  its  hoarded  wealth,  is  as  inaccessible 
as  the  diamonds  of  the  moon  until  I  have  mastered 
the  alphabet.  The  alphabet  is  the  golden  key  that 
unlocks  to  me  all  its  treasures  of  knowledge,  poetry 
and  romance. 

V  am — the  Alphabet!  He  says;  and  He  says  it 
three  separate  times.  For  the  words  occur  thrice  in 
the  Apocalypse.  In  the  first  case  they  refer  to  the 
unfolding  of  the  divine  revelation;  in  the  second 
they  refer  to  the  interpretation  of  historic  experi¬ 
ence;  and  in  the  third  they  refer  to  the  unveiled 
drama  of  the  future.  As  the  disciples  discovered 
on  the  road  to  Emmaus,  I  cannot  understand  my 
Bible  unless  I  take  Him  as  being  the  key  to  it  all; 
I  cannot  understand  the  processes  of  historical  de¬ 
velopment  until  I  have  given  Him  the  central  place; 
I  cannot  anticipate  with  equanimity  the  unfoldings 
of  the  days  to  come  until  I  have  seen  the  keys  of 
the  eternities  swinging  at  His  girdle. 

The  alphabet  is,  essentially,  an  individual  affair. 
In  order  to  read  a  single  sentence,  I  must  learn  it 
for  myself.  My  father’s  intimacy  with  the  alphabet 


A  Box  of  Blocks 


223 


does  not  help  me  to  enjoy  the  volumes  on  my  shelves. 
The  alphabet  is  indispensable  to  me;  and  so  is  He! 
There  is  something  very  pathetic  and  very  instruc¬ 
tive  about  the  story  that  Legh  Richmond  tells  of 
The  Young  Cottager,  ‘The  rays  of  the  morning 
star/  Mr.  Richmond  says,  ‘were  not  so  beautiful  in 
my  sight  as  the  spiritual  lustre  of  this  young  Chris¬ 
tian’s  character.’  She  was  very  ill  when  he  visited 
her  for  the  last  time.  ‘There  was  animation  in  her 
look — ^there  was  more — something  like  a  foretaste 
of  heaven  seemed  to  be  felt,  and  gave  an  inexpres¬ 
sible  character  of  spiritual  beauty  even  in  death.’ 

‘Where  is  your  hope,  my  child?’  Mr.  Richmond 
asked,  in  the  course  of  that  last  conversation. 

‘Lifting  up  her  finger,’  he  says,  ‘she  pointed  to 
heaven,  and  then  directed  the  same  finger  down¬ 
ward  to  her  own  heart,  saying  successively  as  she 
did  so,  ^'Christ  there T  and  Christ  hereT  These 
words,  accompanied  by  the  action,  spoke  her  mean¬ 
ing  more  solemnly  than  can  easily  be  conceived.’ 

In  life  and  in  death  He  is  our  one  indispensability. 
In  relation  to  this  world,  and  in  relation  to  the 
world  that  is  to  come.  He  stands  to  the  soul  as  the 
alphabet  stands  in  relation  to  literature. 

V 

And  when  the  East  Wind  breathes  upon  these 
letters  on  the  floor,  I  see  at  once  that  they  are 
symbols  of  the  Invincibility  of  Jesus.  am — A 

and  Zf  He  is  at  the  beginning,  that  is  to  say, 


224 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


and  He  goes  right  through  to  the  end.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  alphabet  before  A;  there  is  nothing 
after  Z.  However  far  back  your  evolutionary 
interpretation  of  the  universe  may  place  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  things,  you  will  find  Him  there.  However 
remote  your  interpretation  of  prophecy  may  make 
the  end  of  things,  you  will  find  Him  there.  He  goes 
right  through.  The  story  of  the  ages — past,  present 
and  future^ — may  be  told  in  a  sentence :  ^Christ  first, 
Christ  last,  and  nought  between  but  Christ.’  Having 
begun.  He  completes.  He  is  the  Author  and 
Finisher  of  our  faith.  He  sets  His  face  like  a  flint. 
Nothing  daunts,  deters,  or  dismays  Him.  T  am  con¬ 
fident,’  Paul  says,  ‘of  this  very  thing,  that  He  which 
hath  begun  a  good  work  in  you  will  perform  it  unto 
the  end.’  He  never  halts  at  H  or  L  or  P  or  X;  he 

goes  right  through  to  Z.  He  never  gives  up. 

/  \ 

VI 

But  the  greatest  comfort  of  all  comes  to  me  on 
the  Wings  of  the  West  Wind.  For,  when  the  West 
Wind  breathes  upon  these  letters  on  the  floor,  I  see 
at  once  that  they  are  symbols  of  the  Adaptability 
of  Jesus.  The  lover  takes  these  twenty-six  letters 
and  makes  them  the  vehicle  for  the  expression  of 
his  passion;  the  poet  transforms  them  into  a  song 
that  shall  be  sung  for  centuries;  the  judge  turns 
them  into  a  sentence  of  death.  In  the  hands  of 
each  they  mold  themselves  to  his  necessity.  The 
alphabet  is  the  most  fluid,  the  most  accommodating. 


A  Box  of  Blocks 


225 


the  most  plastic,  the  most  adaptable  contrivance  on 
the  planet.  Just  because,  in  common  with  every 
man  breathing,  I  possess  a  distinctive  individuality, 
I  sometimes  feel  as  no  man  ever  felt  before,  and  I 
express  myself  in  language  such  as  no  man  ever 
used.  And  the  beauty  of  the  alphabet  is  that  it 
adapts  itself  to  my  individual  need.  And  that  is 
precisely  the  beauty  of  Jesus.  *I  am — the  Alpha- 
bet!^  I  may  not  have  sinned  more  than  others;  but 
I  have  sinned  differently.  The  experiences  of  others 
never  sound  convincing ;  they  do  not  quite  reflect  my 
case.  But,  like  the  alphabet,  He  adapts  Himself  to 
every  case.  He  is  the  very  Saviour  I  need. 


VI 


PIECRUST 

I 

‘What  do  you  say  to  a  day  or  two  together  at  the 
Nuggets?*  asked  John  Broadbanks  one  summer's 
evening.  I  was  just  returning  from  a  long  round 
of  visitation  among  the  outlying  farms,  and,  driving 
into  Mosgiel  in  the  dusk,  met  him  on  his  way  home 
to  Silverstream.  We  reined  up  for  a  moment  to 
exchange  greetings,  and  he  made  the  suggestion  I 
have  just  recorded.  The  prospect  was  certainly 
very  alluring.  We  had  neither  of  us  been  away  for 
some  time.  There  is  no  wilder  or  more  romantic 
bit  of  scenery  on  the  New  Zealand  coast;  and  a 
visit  to  the  stately  old  lighthouse,  perched  on  its 
rugged  and  precipitous  cliffs,  was  always  a  delight¬ 
ful  and  bracing  experience. 

‘ W e  will  drive  down,*  he  continued,  seeing  by  my 
hesitation  that  any  resistance  on  my  part  would 
be  extremely  feeble.  ‘Sidwell  of  Balclutha  has  often 
urged  us  to  spend  a  night  at  his  manse.  We  will 
break  our  journey  there.  We  can  slip  our  guns 
into  the  spring-cart,  and  the  driving  and  the  shoot¬ 
ing  will  be  half  the  fun  of  the  frolic.  And  we  may 
have  time  to  explore  the  coast  a  bit.  I  should  like 
to  see  the  reef  on  which  the  Queen  of  the  Amazons 

226 


Piecrust 


227 


was  wrecked  last  week,  and,  if  we  are  lucky  enough 
to  strike  a  low  tide,  we  may  be  able  to  scramble  on 
board.  Are  you  on?’ 

He  found  me  very  pliable,  as,  on  such  occasions, 
he  usually  did ;  and  we  spent  a  memorable  week  to¬ 
gether.  On  the  Sunday,  there  being  no  service 
at  the  Nuggets,  we  walked  along  the  wet  sands  to 
Port  Molyneux,  and  joined  a  little  group  of  settlers 
who  met  for  worship  in  the  schoolhouse.  We  rested 
on  the  beach  during  the  afternoon,  and,  in  the  eve¬ 
ning,  set  out  to  walk  to  the  lighthouse.  It  was  a 
glorious  moonlight  night;  we  could  see  the  rabbits 
scurrying  across  the  road  half  a  mile  ahead.  When 
we  reached  the  crest  of  that  bold  promontory  on  the 
extremity  of  which  the  lighthouse  stands,  we  found 
ourselves  surveying  a  new  stretch  of  coast.  The 
cliifs  at  our  feet  were  almost  perpendicular,  and,  far 
below  us,  the  wild  waves  breaking  madly  over  her, 
lay  all  that  was  left  of  the  Queen  of  the  Amazons, 
We  spread  out  a  coat  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff;  and 
sat  for  some  time  in  silent  contemplation  of  this 
weird  and  romantic  spectacle. 

‘Well,’  I  said  at  last,  ‘and  how  did  you  enjoy  the 
service  this  morning  ?’ 

The  moon  was  shining  full  upon  his  face,  and  I 
could  see  at  a  glance  that  he  was  reluctant  to  reply. 

T  was  afraid  you  would  ask  me  that,’  he  said 
at  length.  ‘Well,  frankly,  I  was  disappointed.  It 
may  have  been  because  I  was  in  a  holiday  mood,  or 
perhaps  our  long  walk  on  such  a  lovely  morning 


228 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


had  unfitted  me  for  thinking  on  the  sadder  side  of 
things;  but,  however  that  may  be,  I  found  the  serv¬ 
ice  depressing.  It  checked  the  gaiety  of  my  spirit 
and  deadened  the  exhilaration  which  I  took  to  it. 
I  went  in  singing;  I  came  out  sighing.  I  felt  some¬ 
how,  that  the  preaching  was  mostly  piecrust. 
Obviously,  the  fellow  was  not  well,  and  he  allowed 
his  dyspepsia  to  darken  his  doctrine.  Indigestion 
was  never  intended  to  be  an  infectious  disease;  but 
he  made  it  so  by  sending  us  all  away  suffering 
from  the  after-effects  of  his  unwholesome  breakfast. 
I  usually  jot  down  a  preacher^s  heads  or  divisions, 
but  I  didn't  trouble  to  make  a  note  of  his.  It  was, 
firstly,  piecrust;  and,  secondly,  piecrust;  and,  thirdly, 
piecrust;  and  piecrust  all  the  way  through !' 

John  was  not  usually  a  caustic  critic.  He  saw 
the  best  in  most  of  us  and  magnified  it.  His  out¬ 
burst  that  night  on  the  cliff  was  therefore  the  more 
startling  and  the  more  memorable.  I  have  quite 
forgotten  what  the  preacher  said  at  Port  Molyneux 
in  the  morning ;  but,  as  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  remem¬ 
ber  what  John  said  as  ,we  sat  in  the  silvery  moonlight 
that  summer's  evening,  looking  down  at  the  great 
ship  being  torn  to  pieces  by  the  waves  on  the  cruel 
reef  just  below. 


II 

‘Why,  bless  me,'  I  heard  a  man  exclaim  yesterday 
in  the  course  of  an  animated  discussion  at  the 
street  corner,  ‘if  things  go  on  like  this,  I  shan't 


Piecrust 


229 


have  a  soul  to  call  my  own!^  As  though  any  man 
had!  No  man  living  has  a  soul  to  call  his  own, 
or  a  stomach  to  call  his  own.  The  preacher  at  Port 
Molyneux  assumed,  as  he  sat  at  breakfast,  that  his 
digestive  organs  were  his  own  property,  and  poor 
John  Broadbanks  and  I,  as  well  as  all  the  other 
members  of  the  school-house  congregation,  were 
penalized  in  consequence.  Carlyle  used  to  argue, 
more  or  less  seriously,  that  the  whole  course  of 
human  history  has  been  repeatedly  deflected  by 
blunders  of  this  kind.  The  world  has  never  known 
a  more  decisive  battle  than  the  battle  of  Waterloo ; 
but  why  did  the  Duke  of  Wellington  win  it?  All 
authorities  agree  that  Napoleon  was  the  greater 
general.  Lord  Roberts  declares  that  the  schemes  of 
Napoleon  were  more  comprehensive,  his  genius  more 
dazzling,  and  his  imagination  more  vivid  than 
Wellington’s.  Yet  on  that  fateful  day  that  decided 
the  destinies  of  Europe,  Napoleon  descended  to 
absolute  mediocrity  while  Wellington  rose  to  sur¬ 
passing'  brilliance.  The  Emperor  was  never  so 
agitated;  the  Duke  was  never  so  calm.  Napoleon, 
with  all  the  chances  in  his  favor,  perpetrated  blunder 
after  blunder;  the  Duke  seemed  omniscient  and  in¬ 
fallible.  Why?  Carlyle  used  to  say  that  Napoleon 
threw  his  brain  out  of  action  by  eating  a  hearty 
breakfast  of  fried  potatoes.  In  one  respect,  at  any 
rate,  Carlyle  knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  ‘As 
a  student,’  he  says,  T  discovered  that  I  was  the 
owner  of  a  diabolical  arrangement  called  a  stomach ; 


230 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


and  I  have  never  been  free  from  the  knowledge  from 
that  hour  to  this;  and  I  suppose  I  never  shall  until 
I  am  laid  away  in  my  grave/  Warned,  however, 
by  the  melancholy  fate  which  he  believed  Napoleon 
to  have  suffered,  he  guarded  against  any  overflow 
of  his  distress.  His  readers  rarely  suffer  from  the 
after-effects  of  his  indiscreet  breakfasts.  We  read 
Sartor  Resartus,  Heroes  and  Hero-worship,  and 
Past  and  Present,  and  never  once  think  of  piecrust 
or  of  fried  potatoes. 

It  is  true,  I  dare  say,  that  all  the  people  in  the 
school-house  were  not  affected  as  John  Broadbanks 
was.  Indeed,  I  heard  next  day  of  one  lady  who 
thought  the  sermon  very  affecting.  It  nearly 
made  her  cry,  she  said;  and  she  felt  sure  that  the 
preacher  was  not  long  for  this  world.  I  would  not 
on  any  consideration  deprive  this  excellent  creature 
of  her  lachrymal  felicity;  but  if  her  well-meant 
encomiums  reached  the  preacher’s  ears,  I  hope  he  did 
not  take  them  too  seriously.  Lots  of  people  are 
fond  of  piecrust,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  it  is 
good  for  them.  The  sort  of  sermon  that  would 
have  stimulated  the  faith  of  John  Broadbanks  might 
not  have  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  lady  who 
was  moved  to  such  a  compassionate  ecstasy,  but  it 
might  have  been  better  for  her  in  the  long  run.  John 
Broadbanks  found  the  piecrust  sermon  depressing; 
yet,  to  a  certain  type  of  mind,  few  things  are  more 
attractive  than  sadness.  We  all  remember  Ma¬ 
caulay’s  observations  on  the  inordinate  popularity 


Piecrust 


231 


of  Byron.  ‘It  is/  he  says,  ‘without  a  parallel  in  his¬ 
tory.  To  people  who  are  unacquainted  with  real 
calamity,  nothing  is  so  dainty  and  sweet  as  lovely 
melancholy.’  Arid  he  goes  on  to  apply  this  to  the 
pessimism  of  Byron.  ‘People  bought  pictures  of 
him;  they  treasured  up  the  smallest  relics  of  him; 
they  learned  his  poems  by  heart;  they  did  their 
best  to  write  like  him  and  to  look  like  him.  Many  of 
them  practised  in  the  glass  in  the  hope  of  catching 
the  curl  of  the  upper  lip  and  the  scowl  of  the  brow 
which  appear  in  his  portraits.  The  number  of  hope¬ 
ful  undergraduates  and  medical  students  who  be¬ 
came  things  of  dark  imaginings,  on  whom  the  fresh¬ 
ness  of  the  heart  ceased  to  fall  like  dew,  and  to 
whom  the  relief  of  tears  was  denied,  passes  all  cal¬ 
culation.’  Clearly,  this  is  the  lady  with  the  tears — 
indefinitely  multiplied. 

Now,  by  way  of  contrast,  turn  for  a  moment  from 
Byron  to  Browning.  Professor  Phelps  of  Yale 
says  that  Browning  was  too  healthy  to  be  popular. 
He  was  robust  and  vigorous,  and  therefore  opti¬ 
mistic.  But  he  is  slowly  winning  his  way.  His 
star  waxes  as  Byron’s  wanes.  People  find  sooner 
or  later  that  they  cannot  live  for  ever  on  piecrust. 
Mr.  Chesterton  says  that  the  bravest  thing  about 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  is  that  he  never  allowed 
his  manuscripts  to  smell  of  his  medicines.  The  tor¬ 
tures  that  racked  his  frame  never  passed  down  his 
pen  to  the  paper  spread  out  before  him.  You  read 
his  sprightly  and  stirring  romances ;  you  live  for  the 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


232 

time  being  among  pirates  and  smugglers  and 
corsairs;  you  catch  the  breath  of  the  hills  and  the 
tang  of  the  sea;  and  it  never  occurs  to  you  that  you 
are  the  guest  of  a  man  who  is  terribly  ill.  You  hear 
him  laugh;  you  never  hear  him  cough.  You  do  not 
see  his  sunken  eyes,  his  hectic  cheek,  his  spectral 
form  supported  by  a  pile  of  pillows.  You  reflect 
with  astonishment  when  you  lay  aside  the  book  that 
the  story  was  written  by  a  creature  so  pitifully  frail 
that,  on  all  the  earth’s  broad  surface,  he  could  only 
find  one  outlandish  spot — a  lonely  hilltop  in  the 
Pacific — in  which  he  could  contrive  to  breathe.  By 
this  time  we  may  hope  that  our  preacher  at  Port 
Molyneux  has  read  the  Life  of  Stevenson.  And, 
as  he  did  so,  he  must  have  resolved  that,  however 
excruciating  his  dyspepsia,  his  congregation,  at 
least,  shall  never  be  infected  by  it. 

I  regret  now  that  I  did  not  ask  the  preacher’s 
name.  If  only  I  knew  his  address,  I  should  find 
pleasure  in  posting  him  a  copy  oi  The  Autocrat  of 
the  Breakfast  Table.  For  the  autocrat  knew  some¬ 
thing  about  piecrust.  The  pie  at  the  boarding¬ 
house  looked  one  day  particularly  attractive,  and 
things  happened  in  consequence.  T  took  more  of  it 
than  was  good  for  me,’  says  the  Autocrat,  ‘and  had 
an  indigestion  in  consequence.  While  I  was  suffer¬ 
ing  from  it,  I  wrote  some  sadly  desponding  poems, 
and  a  theological  essay  which  took  a  very  melan¬ 
choly  view  of  creation.  When  I  got  better,  I 
labelled  them  all  Piecrust,  and  laid  them  by  as  scare- 


Piecrust 


233 


crows  and  solemn  warnings.  I  have  a  number  of 
books  on  my  shelves  that  I  should  like  to  label  with 
some  such  title;  but,  as  they  have  great  names  on 
their  title-pages — Doctors  of  Divinity,  some  of  them 
— it  wouldn’t  do!’  I  should  have  been  tempted  to 
mark  this  passage  before  posting  the  book  to  Port 
Molyneux. 

Ill 

But  the  really  extraordinary  thing  about  pie¬ 
crust  is  that  the  quality  with  which  it  is  most  fre¬ 
quently  taunted  is  its  one  redeeming  feature,  the 
feature  that  makes  it  sublime.  Promises,  they  say, 
are  like  piecrust,  made  to  he  broken.  Why,  the  most 
beautiful  and  sacred  things  in  life  are  made  to  be 
broken !  Upon  all  ordinary  things,  breakage  comes 
as  the  climax  of  disaster;  upon  a  select  few, 
breakage  comes  as  the  climax  of  destiny.  The 
fountain-pen  that  I  hold  in  my  hand — the  pen  with 
which,  without  so  much  as  a  change  of  nib,  all  my 
books  have  been  written — will  lie  broken  before  me 
one  of  these  days.  It  was  made;  it  will  be  broken; 
but  it  was  not  made  to  be  broken.  The  enjoyment 
ends  with  the  breakage.  But  with  those  other  things, 
the  things  of  the  pie-crust  class,  the  enjoyment  begins 
with  the  breakage.  When  I  was  a  small  boy,  I 
indulged  in  bird-nesting.  And  I  never  looked  upon 
a  cluster  of  delicately-tinted,  prettily-speckled  eggs 
‘  without  feeling  that  each  egg  was  the  most  consum¬ 
mate  piece  of  workmanship  that  I  had  ever  seen. 


234 


Rubble  and  Eoseleaves 


Its  shape,  its  color  and  its  pattern  were  alike  perfect. 
Indeed,  I  silenced  my  conscience  as  I  bore  the  nest 
home  by  amplifying  this  very  argument.  ‘If  I  leave 
the  nest  in  the  tree,^  I  said  to  myself,  ‘these  pretty 
things  will  all  be  broken!  When  the  birds  are 
hatched,  the  eggs  will  be  smashed!  They  are  far 
too  pretty  for  that!  I  will  take  them  home  and 
keep  them.  I  am  really  saving  them  by  stealing 
them  !*  I  know  now  that  I  was  wrong.  My  argu¬ 
ment  was  made  up  of  casuistry  and  special  pleading. 
In  reality  I  destroyed  the  eggs  by  preserving  them. 
They  were  made  to  be  broken,  and  I  cheated  destiny 
by  preventing  the  breakage.  I  have  travelled  a  good 
many  miles  since  then;  but,  every  step  of  the  way,  I 
have  learned,  in  some  new  form,  the  same  great  les¬ 
son.  And  when,  with  reverent  footsteps,  I  have 
climbed  the  loftiest  summits  of  all,  the  truth  that  I 
first  discovered  in  the  English  hedgerows  has  be¬ 
come  most  radiantly  clear.  The  two  greatest  events 
in  the  history  of  this  planet  are  the  Incarnation  and 
the  Crucifixion. 

It  is  Christmas-time ;  and  we  think  with  wonder 
and  awe  of  the  mystery  of  that  holy  body^s  making! 

It  is  Easter-time ;  and  we  think  with  wonder  and 
awe  of  the  mystery  of  that  holy  body’s  breaking ! 

It  is  Communion-time!  ‘This  is  My  body  which 
is  broken  for  you,’  He  said. 

And  in  the  making  of  that  body  and  the  breaking 
of  that  body — the  body  that  was  made  to  be  broken 
— a  lost  world  has  found  salvation. 


VII 


ALUS  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL 

It  was  a  cruel  winter’s  night;  an  icy  wind  was 
howling  across  the  Plain ;  a  glorious  fire  was  blazing 
in  the  dining-room  grate;  and,  happily,  I  had  no 
engagements.  To  add  to  our  felicity,  the  San 
Francisco  mail  had  arrived  that  morning,  bringing 
our  monthly  budget  of  news  from  home.  The 
letters  had,  of  course,  been  devoured  upon  delivery, 
but  the  papers  and  magazines  had  been  laid  aside  for 
evening  consumption.  We  had  just  opened  the 
packages  and  arranged  the  journals  in  order  of  pub¬ 
lication  when  there  came  a  ring  at  the  front-door 
bell.  We  glanced  at  each  other  meaningly  and  at 
the  papers  regretfully.  All  kinds  of  visions  pre¬ 
sented  themselves;  visions  of  a  garrulous  visitor 
who,  with  business  over,  would  not  go  ;  visions  of  a 
long  drive  across  the  Plain  in  the  biting  wind; 
visions  of  everything  but  an  evening  with  each  other, 
a  roaring  fire  and  the  English  mail.  As  though  to 
rebuke  our  inhospitable  and  ungracious  thoughts, 
however,  it  was  only  Elsie  Hammond.  Elsie  often 
dropped  in  of  an  evening;  she  usually  brought  her 
fancy-work;  and,  in  her  presence,  we  were  perfectly 
at  our  ease.  Every  manse  has  one  or  two  such 
visitors.  We  read,  worked,  or  chatted  when  Elsie 

235 


236 


Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


came  just  as  we  should  have  done  if  she  had  not 
dropped  in. 

‘Why,  Elsie,’  I  exclaimed,  as  soon  as,  divested 
of  her  hat  and  cloak,  she  entered  the  dining-room 
and  took  her  usual  chair,  ‘whatever  brings  you  out 
on  a  wild  night  like  this?’ 

‘Well,’  she  replied,  ‘I  wanted  to  see  you  about 
the  Young  People’s  Missionary  Union.  You  re¬ 
member  that  they  made  me  Secretary  last  month, 
and  we  are  arranging  for  the  annual  meeting.  We 
have  invited  Mr.  Harriford  Johnson,  of  the  North 
Africa  Evangelization  Society,  to  give  an  address; 
and  I  received  his  reply  this  morning.  He  will  be 
coming  out  from  town  by  the  five-twenty  train;  and 
I  wondered  if  you  could  let  him  come  to  the  manse 
to  tea,  and,  if  needs  be,  stay  the  night.’ 

I  put  Elsie  at  her  ease  by  telling  her  that  she 
might  leave  the  matter  of  Mr.  Johnson’s  reception 
and  entertainment  entirely  in  my  hands;  and  then, 
resuming  the  pile  of  papers,  we  had  a  royal  evening 
with  the  English  news. 

The  day  of  the  missionary  meeting  arrived ;  and, 
as  the  clock  struck  five,  I  set  out  for  the  station. 
Quite  a  number  of  people  were  moving  in  the  same 
direction,  among  them  the  Rev.  J.  M.  McKerrow, 
my  Presbyterian  neighbor.  We  walked  towards  the 
station  together.  On  the  platform,  however,  he 
recognized  a  lady  friend  from  a  distance;  he  moved 
away  to  speak  to  her;  and,  in  the  bustle  of  the 
train’s  arrival,  we  saw  each  other  no  more. 


Airs  Well  that  Ends  Well 


237 


I  had  never  met  Mr.  Johnson,  nor  had  any  de¬ 
scription  of  his  personal  appearance  been  given  me. 
For  some  reason,  I  had  pictured  to  myself  a  tall, 
cadaverous  man  in  a  severe  garb,  bearing  upon  him 
the  signs  of  the  ravages  wrought  by  a  variety  of 
tropical  diseases ;  and,  contrary  to  one’s  usual  experi¬ 
ence,  a  gentleman  roughly  according  with  this 
prognostication  stepped  from  the  train  and  began  to 
look  aimlessly  about  him. 

‘Mr.  Johnson?’  I  inquired,  approaching  him. 

‘Ah!’  he  replied,  ‘and  you’re  from  the  manse!’ 

I  admitted  the  impeachment,  and  we  set  off  to¬ 
gether  for  home.  On  the  way  we  chatted  about  the 
weather,  the  place,  the  crops,  the  people,  the  church, 
the  services,  and  things  in  general.  He  was  a 
vivacious  conversationalist,  and  exhibited  a  remark¬ 
ably  alert  and  hungry  mind.  He  wanted  to  know  all 
about  everything;  and  when  we  discussed  my  own 
work,  its  difficulties,  and  its  encouragements,  he 
showed  a  genuine  interest  and  a  delightful  sym¬ 
pathy.  We  had  invited  several  of  the  leading  mis¬ 
sionary  spirits  of  the  congregation  to  meet  him  at 
tea.  In  order  that  the  conversation  at  table  might  be 
generally  enjoyable,  I  had  stored  my  mind  with  a 
fine  assortment  of  questions  concerning  conditions 
in  Northern  Africa  which,  like  a  quiver-full  of 
arrows,  I  intended  firing  at  our  guest  as  opportunity 
offered.  But  opportunity  did  not  offer.  Mr.  John¬ 
son  was  so  interested  in  the  work  of  the  various 
organizations  represented  round  the  table  that  he 


238  Rubble  and  Roseleaves 

made  it  impossible  for  us  to  inquire  about  his  own. 
Moreover,  our  visitor  chanced  to  discover  that  one 
of  our  guests  had  in  his  home  a  little  boy  who  was 
afflicted  with  blindness.  On  eliciting  this  informa¬ 
tion,  Mr.  Johnson  lapsed  into  sudden  silence,  and 
looked,  I  thought,  as  though  he  had  been  hurt.  But, 
after  tea,  he  drew  the  father  of  the  blind  boy  aside 
and  explained  to  him  that  he  himself  had  but  one 
child,  a  little  girl  of  ten,  and  she  was  similarly 
afflicted.  As  he  spoke  of  her,  his  vivacity  vanished, 
and  a  great  depth  of  tenderness  revealed  itself.  I 
wondered,  but  did  not  care  to  ask,  if  the  blindness 
of  his  child  was  part  of  the  price  that  he  had  been 
compelled  to  pay  for  residence  in  tropical  Africa. 
After  telling  us  of  his  little  daughter,  and  of  the 
comfort  that  she  was  to  him,  Mr.  Johnson  looked 
at  his  watch. 

‘We  have  nearly  an  hour,’  he  said,  ‘before  meet¬ 
ing  time;  may  I  peep  into  your  sanctum?  I  love 
to  glance  over  a  man’s  books.’ 

Rarely  have  I  spent  an  hour  in  the  study  so  de¬ 
lightfully.  All  his  enthusiasm  awoke  again  at  sight 
of  the  shelves.  He  took  down  volume  after  volume, 
handling  each  with  affectionate  reverence,  and  mak¬ 
ing  each  the  text  of  a  running  comment  of  a  most 
fascinating  character.  Amusing  anecdotes  about  the 
author;  an  outline  of  the  singular  circumstances 
under  which  certain  of  the  books  were  written; 
illuminating  criticisms  by  eminent  authorities; 
sparkling  quotations  of  out-of-the-way  passages — 


Airs  Well  that  Ends  Well 


239 


there  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  his  fund  of  lively  and 
original  observations. 

‘But  I  say/  he  suddenly  ejaculated,  ‘that  con¬ 
versation  at  table  was  most  interesting  and  valuable. 
I  had  no  idea  that  so  much  excellent  work  was  being 
done.  I  have  often  wondered - ’ 

But  at  that  moment  the  mistress  of  the  manse 
intervened. 

‘Excuse  me,’  she  said,  as  she  opened  the  study 
door,  ‘but  Mr.  McKerrow  and  another  gentleman 
wish  to  see  you  at  once  in  the  drawing-room.’ 

To  the  drawing-room  I  accordingly  repaired;  and 
there  I  found  my  companion  of  the  afternoon,  ac¬ 
companied  by  a  short,  ruddy,  thick-set  man,  who 
was  laughing  very  heartily. 

‘This  is  an  extraordinary  situation,’  my  friend 
began.  ‘You  will  have  discovered  by  this  time  that 
we  jumped  to  conclusions  too  hurriedly  this  after¬ 
noon.  This  is  Mr.  Harriford  Johnson,  of  the  North 
Africa  Evangelization  Society,  who  is,  I  believe,  to 
lecture  for  you  to-night,  and  I  think  you  must  have 
walked  off  with  Mr.  Douglas  E.  Johnson,  M.A., 
who  is  to  address  our  teachers  this  evening  on  the 
kindergarten  method  as  applied  to  Sunday-school 
work.  Mrs.  McKerrow  and  I  had  invited  the  super¬ 
intendent  of  our  Sunday-sdhool  and  the  teachers  of 
the  primary  classes  to  meet  Mr.  Johnson  at  tea  at 
the  manse,  and  we  got  into  a  beautiful  tangle.  It 
was  like  playing  a  game  of  cross  questions  and 
crooked  answers.  The  young  people  were  asking 


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Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


Mr.  Johnson’s  advice  on  technical  matters  connected 
with  their  classes;  and  Mr.  Johnson  was  modestly 
disclaiming  all  knowledge  of  the  subject,  and  was 
telling  us  of  his  experiences  in  Central  Africa.  We 
were  all  beginning  to  feel  that  the  world  had  sud¬ 
denly  turned  topsy-turvy,  when  Mr.  Johnson  sud¬ 
denly  asked  how  long  ago  the  Young  People’s  Mis¬ 
sionary  Union  was  established,  and  seemed  surprised 
that  a  Miss  Elsie  Hammond  was  not  present.  Then 
the  truth  broke  upon  us,  and  we  have  all  been  laugh¬ 
ing  ever  since.’ 

I  cordially  welcomed  Mr.  Johnson,  and  then  we 
all  three  went  through  to  the  dining-room,  in  which, 
by  this  time,  the  whole  of  our  party  was  assembled. 
Mr.  Johnson  was  holding  the  company  spell-bound. 
I  briefly  introduced  our  two  visitors,  and  explained 
the  position.  The  announcement  was  received  with 
bursts  of  merriment,  although  our  tea-table  guest 
was  covered  with  confusion  and  full  of  apologies. 
However,  he  quickly  entered  into  the  humor  of  the 
situation,  and,  after  promising  to  return  to  lunch 
with  the  African  Mr.  Johnson  next  day,  he  went 
off  with  Mr.  McKerrow  laughing  heartily. 

Both  meetings  were  a  great  success.  The  comedy 
of  errors  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
In  comparing  notes  next  morning,  both  speakers 
'declared  that  they  felt  very  much  at  home  with 
their  audiences.  The  joke  had  quickly  spread,  and 
created  an  atmosphere  of  sympathy  and  familiarity. 
Henry  Drummond  used  to  say  that  he  could  never 


Airs  Well  that  Ends  Well 


241 


get  on  with  people  until  he  had  laughed  with  them. 
Both  meetings  opened  that  evening  with  a  bond 
already  established  between  speaker  and  audience; 
and  that  stands  for  a  good  deal. 

We  had  a  very  happy  time,  too,  at  lunch  next 
morning.  Our  visitors  were  both  pleased  that  the 
mistake  had  been  made. 

*It’s  very  nice,’  said  Mr.  Harriford  Johnson,  ‘to 
have  got  into  touch  with  two  ministers  and  two  con¬ 
gregations  instead  of  one.  I  am  thankful  to  have 
been  able  to  say  a  word  for  Africa  to  the  young 
people  with  whom  I  had  tea  at  Mr.  McKerrow’s.’ 

‘And  for  my  part,’  added  Mr.  Douglas  Johnson, 
‘I  am  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself.  The  con¬ 
versation  at  the  tea-table  last  evening  was  a  perfect 
revelation  to  me.  I  have  often  heard  about  foreign 
missions,  and  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  interested 
myself  in  them.  But  one  has  his  own  line  of  things, 
and  is  apt  to  get  into  grooves.  I  had  no  idea  until 
yesterday  that  the  movement  was  so  orderly  and 
systematic  nor  that  the  operations  were  so  extensive. 
It  was  like  being  taken  into  the  confidence  of  a 
military  commander,  and  shown  his  strategy.  I  go 
back  feeling  that  my  mind  has  been  fitted  with  a 
new  set  of  windows,  and  I  am  able  to  look  out  upon 
the  world  in  a  way  that  was  impossible  before.  I 
am  delighted,  too,  to  have  met  my  namesake,  Mr. 
Harriford  Johnson.  He  has  given  me’ — ^taking  a 
pamphlet  from  his  pocket — ‘a  copy  of  the  last  annual 
report  of  the  North  Africa  Evangelization  Society, 


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Rubble  and  Roseleaves 


and  I  shall  always  think  more  kindly  of  Africa 
because  of  this  singular  experience  at  Mosgiel/ 

It  was  years  before  I  heard  of  either  of  our 
visitors  again.  Mr.  Harriford  Johnson,  it  is  true, 
posted  me  each  year  a  copy  of  the  report  of  his 
work.  In  1899,  however,  he  enclosed  the  pamphlet 
in  a  note  saying  that  he  had  found  some  of  the 
hints  that  he  had  picked  up  in  his  conversation 
with  Mr.  McKerrow^s  kindergarten  teachers 
very  useful  to  his  native  school.  ‘There  is  some¬ 
thing  in  the  idea,’  he  wrote,  ‘that  appeals  to  the 
African  mind;  and  I  am  sending  to  London  for 
some  literature  on  the  subject  with  a  view  to  apply¬ 
ing  the  system  more  extensively.  The  mistakes  that 
we  all  made  that  evening  at  the  Mosgiel  railway 
station  have  proved,  to  me,  very  profitable  ones.’ 

I  never  heard  directly  from  Mr.  Douglas  Johnson. 
But,  about  five  years  afterwards,  I  noticed  in  an 
Auckland  paper  the  announcement  of  the  death  of 
his  little  blind  girl;  and,  a  year  or  two  later,  I  saw 
in  the  annual  report  of  Mr.  Harriford  Johnson’s 
Mission  the  acknowledgement  of  a  handsome 
donation  from  D.EJ.,  Hn  loving  memory  of  one 
who,  though  spending  all  her  days  in  darkness,  now 
sees,  and  desires  that  Africa  shall  have  the  Light  of 
Life/ 

Of  all  the  things  that  are  made  in  a  world  like 
this,  mistakes  are  by  no  means  the  worst. 


Date  Due 

faculty 

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